Still Seeing Red
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: Set 1 week after Bloodshot, psychic Kristina Frye has gone missing, Jane is beginning to act more oddly than usual, and the team must cross the entire state of California to find a killer who seems to be targeting psychics. Dedicated to Purple Piggie.
1. Chapter 1

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 1**_

This was no ordinary dream.

In point of fact, he didn't have ordinary dreams. Hadn't for many years, and even before that, his dreams had been wild, adventuresome, and dark. Very reflective of his active mind and over-active imagination. Five years ago, they had become nightmares, and sleep became something to be avoided at all costs. He had found refuge on a brown leather couch amidst the white noise of office life. Day or night, there was always some sound, drifting conversations, constant keystrokes, phones and chatter. His sleep there had been light, dreamless and dependable, and he was certain that it was the only way he had managed to cope without nightly REM. He had never felt refreshed but at least he never dreamed.

This was different.

He was trapped in a small room made entirely of wood. The air was smoky and sharp, it was desperately hot and his fingertips were burning, but what was perhaps most disturbing of all, was the fact that he was a woman and that somehow he knew her and he didn't seem to mind.

Yes, no ordinary dream at all.

Someone was nudging him. "Jane?"

He opened one eye.

Two green ones were peering at him, brows drawn in, a half-smile tugging into the owner's cheek. "Jane, are you alright?"

He swung his legs over the side of the couch and sat forward, blinking and rubbing his face with his hands. He glanced around at the office. It was early morning, a few agents having spent the night working, some ready for home, others just coming on shift. He looked back at Lisbon.

She had been inordinately concerned for him all week, since he had narrowly escaped becoming birdseed by a parked van full of explosives. So, he had bumped his head a little harder than normal So, he had lost his sight for three days. He was fine, he was sharp. She was such a worrywart. If it wasn't so patronizing, it might have been sweet.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Almost seven."

"I had a dream."

She pursed her lips. She knew him well enough to know that was odd. "Good or bad?"

"Bad I think. I was a woman."

"Oh." Try as she might, she couldn't hide it. Her grin changed into a smirk and threatened to take over her face. "A woman."

"Yes. Odd."

"Do you often dream about being a woman?"

Now he grinned back at her. "Well, if I did, I would be more than able to solve many of the world's greatest mysteries, now wouldn't I?"

"Really? Such as?"

"Well, why do good women love bad men? Which is better, to be desired or respected? What was the deal with Napoleon and Josephine? The fascination with chocolate. The key to the female org—"

"Wait! I get it. I get it. So it was a bad dream because you were a woman, and you weren't solving any great mysteries."

"No, it was a bad dream because I was a woman and I was trapped somewhere in a dark smoky room and I was afraid."

"Oh."

"I think I was Kristina Frye."

"Kristina Frye?" Lisbon snorted. "The psychic?"

"The woman who makes a good but dishonest living pretending to be a psychic, yes."

Lisbon grinned. "Don't dreams reflect subconscious fears or desires?"

"Usually."

"Then why would you be Kristina Frye?"

"Now_ that's_ a scary question." He grinned back. "I need a cup of tea."

"Coffee's on, water's boiling."

"Thank you, Lisbon."

"You're welcome, Jane."

He rose from the couch, smoothed one hand, then the other along his waist-coat. "That's a very nurturing, womanly thing to do."

"Shut up." And she whacked him on the arm.

"And that's a rather masculine, men's-club kind of thing to do. Are you conflicted, Lisbon? Has this job threatened to overpower and subjugate your feminine self?"

"I have a gun."

"Fascinating."

And together they headed to the kitchenette, where the liquid gold was waiting.

__________________________________________

He was sitting at his desk now, a rare occurrence as his desk was usually piled high with boxes, files and books. It was really more a storage unit, as he regularly did most of his 'work' on the couch. But this morning it was the desk and he was leaning back in his chair, feet up, a tower of hardcovers at his side. _Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, the Feminine Mystique, The Wisdom of Menopause, _to name a few.

Lisbon's eyes flicked from the couch to the reader to the couch again.

The couch itself was entirely covered in books.

She shook her head.

"That's a lot of books," she muttered, half to herself.

"Hm?" He looked up from the pages.

"When did you get all those books? I didn't see you go out."

"Oh, I didn't." He flashed her a brilliant smile. "I called the library, spoke to a lovely young woman named Merle. I told her I was doing some research on understanding the heart of a woman, asked if she could help me with some book selections and she very kindly offered to bring a few down on her coffee break."

Lisbon shook her head, imagining a lonely spinster librarian carting up truckloads of books, just to make an impression on one eligible widower named Patrick Jane.

"You're a cad. I just spoke to Minelli. Two detectives are on their way up. They want to talk to you about a case."

"A case? What case?"

"Minelli didn't say, so don't go anywhere. Got it?"

He waved a hand in the direction of the book-laden couch.

"Good," she snorted and disappeared into her office.

He watched her go, grinning, then went back to his books.

________________________________________

Detectives Miguel Ferrare and John Gustavson showed up just before noon, looking like they would much rather be anywhere other than the _California Bureau of Investigations_. They were dressed like every other plainclothes detectives in the state, dark trousers, light shirt, ties askew, sleeves rolled up with the heat. But other than that, they were most different. Ferrare was short, heavy set and middle aged, with a great handle bar moustache adorning his face. Gustavson on the other hand, was quite tall, thin and very blonde, with brows and lashes the colour of snow. In fact, he looked almost like an albino, and Jane took an instant dislike to him.

To both of them, actually, but then again, there was nothing new in that.

They stood in Lisbon's office, she seated at her desk, Jane practically sitting on it, arms folded, eyes dancing, waiting.

Ferrare was senior officer. He had the file.

"Mr. Jane? _Mr._ Patrick Jane?"

Jane glanced at Lisbon, grinned, turned back to the detectives.

"That's me."

"You're not an agent?"

"Ah no. Consultant."

Ferrare looked at Lisbon. She bristled, knowing exactly what the man was thinking.

"And what do you consult with, Mr. Jane?"

"Oh, lots of things."

Lisbon leaned forward. "Mr. Jane has unusually good powers of observation. He brings an unique perspective to our investigations, and has proved helpful on several occasions."

"Thank you, Lisbon." Jane grinned at the detectives. "I'm helpful."

Ferrare grunted, looked back at his notes.

"Do you know a woman by the name of Kristina Frye?"

Now it was Lisbon's turn to glance at him. Jane's grin disappeared.

"Now _that_ was unexpected," he muttered, blinking. "My, my…"

Ferrare eyed him suspiciously. "I repeat, do you know –"

"Yes," said Jane firmly. "Yes, I know her. She was a suspect in a case we were investigating several months ago."

Lisbon leaned forward again. "She wasn't a suspect, Jane. She was…"

"Helpful?" Jane looked like he had just bitten into a lemon.

"Yes, helpful. She wasn't really a suspect."

"_I_ suspected her."

"And you were wrong, weren't you?"

He scowled, but said nothing.

Ferrare grunted again. "Have you been in contact with her since?"

"No. Why?"

"No phone calls, meetings, appointments…sessions?"

Jane raised his brows. "Sessions?"

Ferrare glanced at his partner, then back at Jane. "If she really was…_helpful_…in a previous case, Mr. Jane, then I'm quite sure you are aware of her profession."

"Fake psychic, yes I'm well aware."

"_Fake_ psychic?" Gustavson now.

Lisbon leaned forward a third time. "Mr. Jane is skeptical of people claiming psychic abilities. He prefers… facts."

Jane grinned at her, and again, turned back to the detectives. "So no. No sessions. Sorry."

"And no phone calls?"

"No."

"Never?"

"No. Never. Why?"

Ferrare sighed. "Ms. Frye has been missing for 3 days. We have been going through her appointment book to talk to every one she has listed, and she has you listed as a regular contact."

"Me?" Jane frowned. "That's weird."

Ferrare passed over a black daytimer. Opened it to the middle of the month. _Contact Patrick Jane _written and highlighted in yellow.

Jane shook his head. "That's really weird."

"It's like that every month for 8 months. You sure she never called."

"Wow. Positive."

"Cell phone? Home phone? Work?"

"No, no and no."

"Were the two of you ever involved romantically?"

"Gaah!" Jane recoiled at the very thought. "No and no and never!"

Gustavson grinned. It wasn't a pleasant sight. He had small teeth and big pink gums. "Why not? She is an attractive woman."

"For someone who claims to talk to dead people, sure."

"And you've never claimed to talk to dead people, Mr. Jane?"

Jane raised his brows again, unflapped. "Hence the term 'fake' psychic, Detective."

"And you don't talk to dead people any more."

"I've never talked to dead people, Detective."

"So Ms. Frye's never contacted you in any way over these past few months?" Ferrare now, almost bored.

Jane paused, cocked his head, and Lisbon could tell he was debating whether or not to tell them. He stared off, thinking. "What is the date of that last entry?"

"Yesterday."

He thought for a while longer. "Nah." Looked up. "No, she has never contacted me in any way over these past few months."

Gustavson again. "You didn't seem sure there, pal."

"I'm not your pal. You said she's been missing for three days?"

"Yeah. One of her clients called it in when she missed three appointments in a row, and wasn't answering her phone."

"What do you think has happened to her?"

"No clue. Probably run off with a big stash of money and a young boytoy."

Jane grinned. "Sounds like her alright."

Lisbon whacked him.

He leaned back across the desk to look at her, arms still folded across his chest. "Maybe we should look into it?"

She shrugged. "It's not a state case."

"I'll bet you five bucks it is."

She released a long breath. Unfortunately, he was usually right about such things. He made a lot of money from Cho and Rigsby that way. She glanced up at the detectives.

"Mind if we poke around a bit? Go over to her place, make some phone calls, that kind of stuff. I promise if we turn anything up, we'll hand it over to you."

"It's not a state case," Ferrare repeated. But then he grunted. "I'll be your go-to guy."

"Sure," she nodded.

He looked at Gustavson who shrugged.

"Okay, go crazy. Just keep us in the loop."

Jane brightened. "Oh, you'll be in the loop, alright. You'll be the focal point of the loop, the very middley bit of the loop. Kind of like the knot on the loop of a noose, you know, that little middley tight bit that either kills you or lets you go. You know,_ that_ bit. That's what you'll be."

The detectives stared at him.

"Good day, Agent Lisbon, _Mr._ Jane," said Ferrare, and they walked out of her office, leaving Jane and Lisbon in silence.

"Ah, I love that…" He grinned. "That was fun."

She was looking at him.

"Whaaat?"

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"What am I going to say, Lisbon? "Oh yes, Mr. Mean Detective, I had a dream last night that I was her and I was in a dark scary wooden place and trying to get out. But no, I don't believe she's psychic, and by the way, neither am I?" Right. That sounds good. Very consultant-ish."

"Still…"

"Still, we can check it out, yeh?"

She grinned. "Yeh."

He slid off her desk and patted his belly. "Take out on the way? I'm starving."

"Sure."

And they left the office and headed for the _Temple of Harmony_ of Kristina Frye.

_**End of Chapter 1**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 2**_

The _Temple of Harmony_ was, in fact, a house.

Oh sure, it was a fairly large house, two stories with a large front porch, waiting-room styled foyer and sales racks containing books, CDs, DVDs, incense, crystal globes or balls, candles and various other oddities that might qualify as "Devoted to Psychic Wellness" or "Healing through Clairvoyance", as the sign on the lawn suggested. But other than the lush, Californian-inspired take on Zen gardens in the front and the sign, there was nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary house.

And Jane found nothing at all particularly harmonious about any of it.

He stood in the gap between 'waiting room' and living room, one foot on each side of the doorway, studying the construction of the wall. He had been convinced at one time that the mirror in the waiting room was a two way one, a classic prop in psychic studios, allowing the reader to literally form his or her opinions based on body language alone. Was the client nervous, anxious, calm? Was he or she fidgety or self-controlled, suggestive or stiff, an easy sell or a hard nut in need of convincing? All these factors played into a potential read, and the more information you had on your subject, the better it would go for both of you.

Jane never needed a two-way mirror. Apparently, neither did Kristina Frye.

He hmphed and turned back into the living room, only to find Lisbon watching him with a smirk.

"Wall meet with your approval, Inspector?"

"Up to code," he grinned and shoved his hands in his pockets to join her. It was a perfectly normal living room, neutral walls, neutral couches, hardwood floors. In fact, it was almost generic in its décor, traditional and classic and comforting, with just a hint of the Orient. Jane shuddered at the sight.

"What's wrong now?" Lisbon asked, the smirk seemingly glued to her face now. "Decorating below your standards?"

"Not mine," he said. "Hers. Quite common, actually. She needs to put up an acceptable front, be as 'normal' as possible for a 'clairvoyant channel of the other side', in order to keep her clients comfortable. And what could possibly be more comfortable than chintz?"

She grinned. "So you think all this is a façade?"

"Oh, absolutely. Without a doubt. It's a tried and true technique. You either go "comforting" or you go "other-worldly". Both guarantee public acceptance. And big money." He scanned the room again, hands still firmly thrust in his pockets. "There's nothing down here of interest. If we want to see who Kristina Frye really is, we need to go upstairs."

"Oh, really?"

"Trust me." There was mischief in his eyes. "Come on."

And he turned on his heels and trotted up the formal staircase and disappeared down the hall. She shook her head and followed.

_________________________________

He was waiting for her, one hand on the doorknob of a white colonial door.

"Five bucks says I'm right," he said, still grinning.

"Who am I? Rigsby? Open the door."

And with a showman's flourish, he turned and pushed the door open, revealing a huge high ceiling room painted entirely in auburn red.

"This," he announced with a healthy dose of pride, "Is the real Kristina Frye."

It was completely different from the rest of the house, with its red walls, ebony-stained shaker-style furniture, crisp white bed linens, and modern abstract paintings on the walls. There were no plants, only one lone orchid springing out of a white vase on her dressing table. There were books, however, bringing old soul to an otherwise contemporary room, and a reading chair in black leather.

Lisbon pursed her lips and nodded, impressed.

He moved over to the high bed. It was unmade, as if she had been roused during the middle of the night, and had not the chance to straighten it. He plopped himself onto it, bounced a little to check out the springs, ran a hand along the pillows. Lisbon wandered over to the books. Books could also tell you about a person, their tastes, preferences, tendencies. There were many books on Clairvoyance, Psychology and Wellness, but more than that, mysteries and romance.

"Any diaries?" asked Jane, as he rummaged through her bedside table.

Lisbon snorted. "Most adults don't keep diaries, Jane."

"Ah, but many journal. Semantics, really."

She could give him that, and began to look for something that might resemble a journal. She paused and turned back to the bed.

"Is that your stomach growling?"

"Yeah, it is."

"You didn't eat your McMuffin on the way over. I thought you were starving?"

"I was. I'm not now."

She frowned. "When was the last time you ate anything?"

He sat for a moment, cocked his head. "Hm. I don't know…"

"Jane…"

"Bah. Food. What's it good for, anyway?"

She grinned, pulled out a narrow-spined book that might qualify as 'journal', flipped a few pages, put it back.

"So, if most psychics use some sort of façade to make themselves acceptable, what did you use?"

There was no answer.

"My money is on the 'other-worldly. You'd do 'other-worldly' really…" She turned to look at him. "…well…" He was still sitting on the bed, but frozen in place, as if lost in thought.

"Jane?"

No answer.

She frowned. "Jane?"

Suddenly, he bolted off the bed, as if shocked by an electric current, and he swung around to look at it.

"What?" she asked, quickly moving to his side.

"Nothing," he said too quickly. "Nothing."

"Jane, tell me. Did you see something?"

"What? No." He looked at her, releasing a deep breath. "People don't _see_ things, Lisbon. There's no such thing… It's not real. It's just…" He looked back at the bed. "I have an overactive imagination. Always have."

She clenched her jaw, and reached out to place a hand on his sleeve, needing him to focus. "I know it's not real, Jane. But if it were and if there was some sort of connection –"

"There's not."

"But if there were, what might you have just seen?"

"Absolutely nothing."

She sighed. "Okay. But if there was something, anything, or even 'absolutely nothing,' at some point you'd tell me, right?"

"Right."

He continued to stare at the bed, clearly not wanting to talk. Finally, he looked back at her. "Has there been any forensic work in this case?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I'll call Ferrare. See what they've covered so far."

"Lisbon?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell anyone."

"Okay."

And they left the _Temple of Harmony,_ Jane in a particularly disharmonious state, and headed back to the headquarters of the CBI.

_______________________________________

There had been some minimal forensics work done in the _Temple of Harmony_, and Ferrare promised to fax their findings to Lisbon's office ASAP. They had been quiet on the ride back to CBI headquarters, and it was obvious that Jane had been disturbed by the 'absolutely nothing' of the day's events. For her part, she had said nothing to him about it, and headed for her office to check on the fax.

Jane hovered at Van Pelt's desk.

"Grace?"

"Mm?" She was in the middle of a laborious cross-reference for Organized Crime, as their own Serious Crimes Unit was currently lacking a case. She didn't even look up.

"Grace, are you busy?"

"Um, sort of. What do you need?"

"Can you check something for me?"

Now, she paused and looked up. Patrick Jane rarely asked. He just told her what needed to be done and she did it. It was a relationship that worked for them, he the bossy, nosy, perpetually-right older brother, she the skilled, eager and adoring younger sister. She would do anything to earn his respect and he knew it.

He perched himself on the edge of her desk.

"I need you to check into any recent kidnappings or homicides of psychics, clairvoyants and clairaudients, spiritual and holistic healers, mediums, aura and tarot readers, numerologists, channels and astrologers in the state of California."

She stared at him.

"Um…okay…"

He smiled at her, clearly not understanding her trepidation.

"Um…recent?"

"Yeh."

"Like how recent?"

He shrugged. "Oh, let's start with a year and see what we turn up."

"In the whole entire state of California?"

"Well, we don't have jurisdiction for the continental U.S., do we?"

"No. I mean, right. I mean, never mind. Okay, so anyone who has a psychic, healing or sorta… spiritual kind of calling?"

"Yeh. Calling, profession, occupation, fraudulent pursuit, whatever you want to call it. That shouldn't be hard, should it?"

"Um…" _Only hundreds and thousands and millions._ It was a huge task. But then again, he had huge faith in her abilities. She looked at her computer. "Well, let me see what I can do…"

"Great," he grinned. "I knew I could count on you."

She made a face and saved her work for Organized Crime, furrowed her brow and got to work.

He ambled down the room to Lisbon's office, swung his head inside. "Anything?"

"Mmm." She was seated at her desk, pencil between her teeth, reading a copy of the forensics report. "Well, looks like the back door was jimmied…"

He grabbed a chair, dropped into it. "Jimmied or picked?"

"Says jimmied. Looks like a pro."

"So he's done this before."

"Likely. Except he left a partial boot print on the back landing. Forensics put it at a size 12 men's."

"Hm. Big guy." He furrowed his brow. "He'd have to be. Kristina Frye isn't tiny."

Lisbon glanced up at him. "Well, she's not big, that's for sure."

Jane blinked. "Ah, that's a female thing, isn't it, Lisbon? Sensitivity to weight issues. I learned that in one of my books." He leaned forward, tried to look comforting. "You are just right, Lisbon. Not fat, not skinny. Just right." And he nodded at her, sat back again and smiled his best man-thinking-he-knows-how-to-speak-woman smile.

She rolled her eyes, quite grateful that, no matter what was going on inside his head today, he wasn't able to read her thoughts right now.

"So. Any blood? Semen? Saliva?"

"Saliva, but hers."

"Heh. She drools in her sleep. I bet she snores too."

She shook her head. _Oh, how he loathes that woman._ "They also found male hair fibres in her sheets –"

He raised his brows.

"—But that could just as likely be a lover, not a rapist. There was no DNA match on file."

"She has bad taste in men."

Lisbon snorted. "Jane, I swear, if you're reading Dr. Phil –"

He grinned. "She slept with Jeremy Hale."

"Oh yeah. I see your point. Still…"

"Still, I think I need to see that appointment book again."

She put down the fax. "I don't know, Jane. This still doesn't qualify as a state case. It's not something we can be spending time or resources on, just because __"

"You just said this guy was a pro, had more than likely done this before…"

"Yeah, but that could be simple Breaking and Entering. Some people I know are really good at that."

"Some people don't Break when they Enter." He squared his shoulders. "There's considerably more finesse and craftsmanship involved."

"Boss?" Grace Van Pelt stuck her head in the office doorway. "I got something…"

"What?" Lisbon frowned at her. "Who asked you to look?"

Van Pelt's dark eyes slid to the consultant.

Jane grinned. "Just trying to stay ahead of the curve."

Lisbon sighed. "Okay, what have you got?"

"Three immediate hits, and that was just from the first set of search parameters. About a year ago, a 60 year old psychic named Claire Anthony went missing from her home in LA, turned up dead 2 months later in Anaheim. 8 months ago, a 52 year old clairvoyant and 'channel of loved ones', Alanna Tempest, was found dead in her Bakersfield home, and just 5 months ago, Dorothea Gavin, from Monterey –"

Jane sat up. "I know Dorothea. She's an Automatic Writer."

Lisbon frowned. "What's an Automatic Writer?"

"Writing from a trance-like state," said Van Pelt with authority, and both Jane and Lisbon looked at her. She grinned. "My cousin Yolanda does it sometimes. She's psychic."

Jane smiled at her. "So Dorothea, she's dead, yeh?"

Van Pelt nodded. "Sorry, Jane. Cause of death listed as starvation. Actually, for Claire Anthony that's the listed CoD as well. Alanna Tempest was killed by a blow to the temple."

"Blunt instrument?" asked Lisbon.

"Looks like a human fist. She had duct tape on her mouth."

Jane shuddered and Lisbon noticed.

"The_ 'Absolutely Nothing?"_

"Duct tape and fist to the forehead. Sudden." He shuddered again, the image vivid in his memory.

"Okay, looks like we got ourselves a case." Lisbon leaned back in her chair, pulled out her cell phone. "I'll call Ferrare and turf him. Van Pelt, get on the horn to LA, Bakersfield, Monterey. Have them fax over the records. I'm guessing the cases are still open?"

"Wide."

"And get Cho and Rigsby back here. We're going to need to hit the road for some of these."

"Got it, boss." And Van Pelt swung out of the office and back to her desk.

Jane rose to his feet, smoothed his waist-coat with both hands. "Damn. That's too bad about Dorothea…" He brightened. "Can we go to Monterey?"

"For the case or for the seafood?"

He grinned.

"For Evangeline Makepeace and the _West Coast Spirit, Body & Soul Psychic Fair_…"

_**End of Chapter 2**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 3**_

"So who's Evangeline Makepeace?" asked Rigsby, seated at one of the desks, a bagged lunch open and in progress. They had all assembled by the brown couch, overnight bags packed, sitting in a semicircle, ready for their briefing before heading out. "And what in the world is a Psychic Fair?"

"Oh, can I go? _Please?"_ Van Pelt's big brown eyes were begging. "I would _love_ to go to a Psychic Fair."

Lisbon looked over at her. Grace was standing next to Rigsby, hands clenched together pleading. Jane was at his desk, feet up like earlier, nose in a hardcover, engrossed. _The Total Woman._ Lisbon shook her head.

"Sorry, Van Pelt, I need you to stay and co-ordinate the search for Kristina Frye with Ferrare and Gustavson. I still want you to run her Visa, check on their "stash of money and a boytoy" hypothesis."

From behind his book, Jane snorted.

Lisbon continued, unfazed. "Besides, you are by far the best at computer work, so do what you can to dig up any other connections between our vics, other than profession."

"Jane's a connection," said Van Pelt, pouting.

"Hm?" The consultant's head snapped up. "Me?"

"Well, you knew Dorothea Gavin, and you know Kristina Frye…"

Jane grinned and waggled his brows at the murderous possibilities.

Lisbon huffed. "Connections _other_ than Jane."

Van Pelt shrugged. "Well, it_ is_ a connection."

"You're completely right, Grace," agreed Jane. "I validate your professional instincts." He went back to his book.

"So," said Rigsby through a mouthful of bagel. "How come you two get to go to Monterey, and me and Cho have to go to Bakersfield?"

"Yeah," said Cho. "I hate Bakersfield. It's all '_Grapes of Wrath.' _It's depressing."

"Right," said Rigsby, chewing. "Too Weedpatch-y."

"Right," said Cho. "Weedpatch."

Together, they stared at Teresa Lisbon.

"Sorry, boys. First Bakersfield, then on to LA."

"LA?" Rigsby brightened. "Oh, well, that's different."

"No Grapes in LA," said Cho.

"Yeah," said Rigsby, swallowing his bagel. "It's Grapeless."

"But there's Wrath…"

"Sure. Lots of Wrath."

"I never get to go anywhere…" mumbled Van Pelt to herself. Rigsby shot her a look that said he would take her to LA or even Bakersfield in a heartbeat, if he could only muster up the courage to ask.

Lisbon shook her head. "I've alerted the precincts to your arrival, and they'll show you the scenes. I expect you both back tomorrow evening, unless you find a really good lead, and I mean really good. Got it?"

"Got it," they echoed.

Next, Rigsby pulled the wrapper off a power bar. "So, are we thinking this is the same guy? 'Cause that's a lot of territory for one killer, right? I mean, LA, Bakersfield, Monterey, Sacramento…"

"Crossing the state?" suggested Cho.

"Heading north?" Van Pelt now.

"Maybe he's a traveling salesman, I don't know," growled Lisbon, growing agitated. Brainstorming was not her forte. She was much more of a sequential thinker. "This could just be a series of random coincidences as well. Maybe they're not connected in the least."

"Yes, they are," sang Jane from behind his book.

"We don't know that and over the span of a year, with three, now four very different locales, it's almost impossible to find any similarity, let alone a lead, in these four cases."

"The geography is curious," said Jane, only eyes visible over the pages. "Is it at all possible to track someone's whereabouts over the course of a year in one state?"

"Well," said Van Pelt, "If you knew who you were looking for, sure. There are all kinds of records that could help you do that. But going backwards, using only geographical locations to pinpoint a person? Not possible."

"What about real estate?"

"If he bought, yes, you could cross check property transactions but if he rented –"

"Medical records?"

"Classified. No access."

"DMV?"

There was silence in the bullpen for several moments as they all thought through the likelihood of that.

"No," said Cho, finally. "You don't need to change your Driver's License if you change cities. Only if you move out of state."

Lisbon grinned. "It would make it too easy if we could just punch the variables into the computer and have it spit out a suspect, but unfortunately, it can't."

"Not yet," grumbled Van Pelt.

"Which is why Rigsby and Cho are going to Bakersfield, and you and I are going to Monterey. It's called police work."

Jane sighed and went back to his book.

"And what would the motive be?" Rigsby again, brow furrowed, still munching. "I mean, the first one was like 80 years old."

"60," corrected Van Pelt.

"Yeah, right. There sure isn't going to be a sexual motive that's for sure."

"Well, you never know. Fetishes come in all shapes and sizes."

"And ages," said Cho.

Lisbon grimaced. "And ages. Alanna Tempest was 52. Dorothea was, what --?"

"47," said Van Pelt.

"Whoa," said Rigsby. "Getting younger each time. How old was –"

"_Is."_

"—is Kristina Frye?"

"39," said Van Pelt.

"But none of them had been sexually assaulted," said Lisbon. "So it may not have been sexually motivated."

"But the ages are significant?" asked Cho. It was more of a statement.

"Yes," muttered Jane, "But not in the way you think."

They all turned to look at him.

"How so?" asked Lisbon.

He didn't look up. "It's Oedipal. Father died when the kid was fairly young, mother was a weirdie, probably into Tarot, channeling, holistic medicines, that ilk, and Junior gets dependant. Freakishly so. Can't separate mother from lover in his head, issues begin to develop, you know, the usual. All serial murderers have deep sexual confusion at their root, sooo…" Now he did look up. "…we need to get to Kristina Frye before he decides she's a woman and not Mom. If he rapes her, then he'll feel horrible guilt, and kill her to assuage his conscience. The only thing that kept them alive for so long was the mistaken belief that they were Mom."

"That's creepy," grumbled Cho.

"Most serial killers are, I'm afraid."

Van Pelt shrugged. "At least that means Ms. Frye is probably still alive."

"For now."

Lisbon hmphed, indulging his theory, but not yet believing it. "But why starvation? That's a very odd way to kill someone, don't you think?"

"Very."

"So?"

"I haven't the foggiest."

They sat in thought for a few minutes, the only sound being the distant ringing of phones and footsteps. Rigsby cleared his throat, tossed the power bar wrapper into the trash.

"So, we're looking for one tall guy, size 12 shoe, traveled the state this past year, who's dad died when he was a kid and who's mom was probably into psychic stuff."

Lisbon pursed her lips, impressed. "Actually, that's not bad for a preliminary profile, but it's still only circumstantial. The only hard facts we have are the shoe size and the locations."

She looked at her team. "Okay, are we all good with what we need to do?"

Everyone nodded.

"Alright, let's go."

Everyone nodded.

She grit her teeth. _"Now."_

Cho and Rigsby jumped to their feet and bolted for the door, Van Pelt sulked off to her computer, leaving only Patrick Jane still sitting at his desk.

"Jane," she growled. "Are you planning on coming?"

"Can't I finish my book?"

"You can take it in the car."

"But I can't read in the car. I get carsick."

Lisbon snagged her brown jacket. "Perhaps Merle could bring you some books on CD…"

"Now, that would be selfish," grinned Jane, eyes gleaming at the thought. "I could call her…"

"Let's go."

And the 3 agents plus one bookless consultant left the bullpen of their CBI office, leaving one very dejected rookie in charge of phones yet again.

____________________________________

"We can take my car if you'd prefer."

She threw him a look as they walked across the CBI parking lot. Actually, _she_ was walking. Jane was bouncing, swinging the large red gift bag he sometimes used as a picnic basket. She didn't want to know what he had packed.

"Now why on earth would we take that flimsy piece of scrap metal you call a car on a 3 hour road trip to Monterey?"

"It's French."

"That makes no sense at all."

"Makes sense to me. French car, homemade sandwiches, beautiful countryside—"

"You're hopeless."

"Hey, you. Agent Lisbon!"

A man jogged up as they neared their dark SUV. It was John Gustavson, one of the detectives they had spoken with earlier on that day. He was wearing dark sunglasses, which looked out of place against the palour of his skin and hair.

"Det. Gustavson. We're just heading out. Is there something—"

"Yeah, you bet there's something. You took this case! After you said we were going to be point, you took it right over!"

Lisbon ground her teeth. "First of all, _Detective_, I never said you were going to be point. I was extending a professional courtesy –"

"There's nothing professional about it, lady."

"Ooh..." Jane grimaced. "I'm just gonna go, ah… wait in the car, yeh?" And he and his red bag slipped away from the rapidly brewing storm and into the safety of the passenger seat.

"_Agent_ lady, Detective. _Senior _Agent lady. Remember that." She stepped toward him, a good foot shorter, but more than making up for it in attitude. "And the CBI can assume control of any investigation in the state, especially when local yocals get lazy and don't do their homework."

"I resent that! Ferrare has 20 years on the force…"

"Wonderful! But within 5 minutes we found 3 other cases that are probably all committed by the same unsub. 5 minutes! And in less than 20, we had a profile. You had this for 3 days. That smacks lazy to me." She poked him in the chest. "So beat it before I pull you up on charges, buster. Same goes for Ferrare. Got it?"

He snarled, but backed away.

She spun on her heel and stormed to the driver's seat of the SUV, threw it into reverse and almost ran the detective over as she screeched out of the lot.

Jane looked at her, eyes dancing.

"Albinos scare me."

"Shut up, Jane," she growled and headed for the I-5, and the 3 hour drive to Monterey.

_________________________________

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Of course, sir…"

Grace Van Pelt sighed and dropped her chin into her palm. She was listening to Detective Miguel Ferrare chew out Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane and the entire CBI for taking over their investigation. She was trying to keep the situation from escalating.

"Yes, sir," she agreed, "But it is our job sir. Yes, sir. The entire state of California. Yes, sir. It _is_ a damn big state…"

He was threatening to go over her head, call the Governator himself, take this to the press, nothing she hadn't heard before, and as she sat listening, she wondered if the CBI shouldn't have a Customer Relations Division, or a Complaints Department, like a big box store. She smirked to herself. With Patrick Jane on the payroll, they could probably use one.

"Yes, sir. We would still like you to continue the investigation into Kristina Frye's disappearance… No, sir, I don't think that's ironic… Yes, sir, only if you feel like it…"

She sighed again, not for the first time wishing she weren't the rookie, and certain that any road trip had to be more exciting than this…

_________________________________

"That white car."

"Nope."

"That white house."

"Nope."

Cho turned to look at his partner behind the wheel. "That white line on the highway."

"Bingo."

He stared at Rigsby. "You said that one already."

Rigsby snorted and reached for his Big Gulp. "What am I going to pick, man? This is a totally boring stretch of highway. Yellow fields, blue sky, black asphalt and cows. Boring. Boring. Boring."

"Weedpatch."

"You said it, man. Your turn."

Cho looked back at the yellow fields, blue sky and black asphalt ahead of him.

He sighed.

"I spy, with my little eye, something that is black and white."

"Oh, oh, I know! I know! That cow!"

"Your turn."

"Okay, this'll be a tough one. Okay, I spy, with my little eye, something that is big and blue…"

And they continued like that all the way to Bakersfield.

___________________________________________

"Aaaah, seven hundred and eighty-nine bottles of beer on the wall, seven hundred and eighty-nine bottles of beer, take one down, pass it around, seven hundred and eighty-eight bottles of beer on the wall. Seven hundred and eighty-eight—"

"_Stop singing, damn it!"_

He turned to look at her.

"That was harsh."

"You're driving me crazy."

"But you're the one who's driving. If you let me drive, not only would we be there faster, I wouldn't feel the need for extraneous musical interludes."

"In case you haven't noticed, we're not on the I-5 anymore. This is twisty, turny and hilly, and if I let you drive, we would be dead."

He studied her for a moment.

"You have a pathological fear of dying."

"No, I have a healthy fear of dying. Something you would do well to cultivate."

"Why?"

She tried to look at him, but the road was indeed twisty, turny and hilly. It was impossible.

"Because you take too many chances, that's why. You have no regard for your personal safety, or that of others."

"I'm letting you drive, aren't I? I'm regarding your personal safety by letting you drive."

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. You're still angry about Gustavson."

"Yes I am."

"Hm. It's tough being a woman."

"What?"

"A woman needs to look like a girl, act like a lady, think like a man, work like a dog."

"_What?"_

"I read that in one of my books."

She rolled her eyes again.

"You are successful at three of those."

She was grateful her Glock was in the back seat with her bag.

He sighed and turned back to stare out at the road. "Where was I?"

She clenched her teeth. "Seven hundred and eighty-eight."

"Aaaah, seven hundred and eighty-eight bottles of beer on the wall, seven hundred and eighty-eight bottles of beer…"

And they continued like that all the way to Monterey, where the _West Coast Spirit, Body & Soul Psychic Fair _was beginning.

_**End of Chapter 3 **_


	4. Chapter 4

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 4**_

The _West Coast Spirit, Body & Soul Psychic Fair_ was abuzz with activity. Taking place twice a year for 21 years, it played host to over 40 exhibitors, healers, readers, artisans and spirit guides, as well as workshops, seminars and select celebrity lecturers. Registration had just begun and the parking lot was packed. Monterey Place was the main facility, but tents outside populated the large fairground like daisies in a summer meadow.

It was the place to be for the soul in need of a journey.

Teresa Lisbon sighed, put the dark SUV into park, and turned to look at her companion.

"Tell me again why this can't wait until morning?"

He grinned. "It's only a two day thing, Lisbon. Do you really want to be sleeping in a stuffy motel room when there's enlightenment for your mind, soul and spirit only minutes away?"

She snorted. "It's seven o'clock, I have a headache from all your singing and I'm hungry."

"I told you I brought sandwiches."

"Which even you didn't touch."

"I'm not hungry."

"Besides, I don't trust your sandwiches. I want real food. White bread is not real food. That meat-by-product you call bologna is not real food. Lettuce might be called real food but you don't even put lettuce on them. Juice boxes? That's not real juice, Jane. It's sugar, MSG and food colouring. And Chocolate Sallies? What the hell is a Chocolate Sally? Is it a Twinkie? Is it a donut? Is it something they use in the construction industry to glue walls together? Honestly Jane, I don't know how you survive on that stuff."

He stared at her, dejected.

"And they should be in a cooler. That red bag is not a cooler. Those sandwiches are probably full of salmonella by now, but I don't think anything is gonna touch those Chocolate Sallies."

"There's cotton candy and kettle corn inside, if you prefer…"

"Let's go," she growled, rolled herself out of the SUV and stomped up to the entrance to the fairground.

"Ah Lisbon?" Jane trotted up behind her. "It costs $10 bucks each to get in."

She glared at him, flashed her badge at the thin, pimply kid at the door and promptly stalked inside. Jane pointed at her, then himself, then back again and ducked in after, throwing him a little wave by way of thanks.

The joint was, as they say, jumpin'.

Packed wall to wall with booths, curtains and tables, candles and crystals and globes of every colour, incense in every fragrance, silks and satins and cottons and wool, a lifestyle for every palate. There were people of every nationality, age and financial bracket as well, and barefooted children scurried past senior citizens with canes. There was music galore, from Lakota drums to Celtic harps to Indian sitars and dilrubas, and tone on tone voices singing in every key imaginable.

Lisbon found her mouth watering at the smells and her stomach began to tell her that Jane's plastic sandwiches had really not been such a bad idea.

He was grinning from ear to ear, walking with hands firmly clasped behind his back, seeming to enjoy every minute. He looked perfectly at home here, even seeming to know where he was going, and it occurred to her that this had once been his milieu, his turf, his playing field so to speak, and she wondered if he had been one of the celebrity lecturers at some early point during his former career. She began to notice things then, reactions of the exhibitors, widening eyes as he passed their booths, stolen glances, whispers and nudges and nods.

_No,_ she thought to herself. Jane wasn't the only one with an over-active imagination.

He paused at a booth to let her catch up. As his eyes wandered the display of handmade Celtic and crystal jewelry, Lisbon let her gaze fall on the proprietor. A tall, slim woman with dyed black hair and turquoise eyes was staring at Jane with open-mouthed awe.

He turned to Lisbon. "What about these? These are pretty…"

He indicated a pair of earrings, small and delicate, crafted of Sterling silver and twisted into intricate Celtic knots.

"They're beautiful," she said truthfully.

"I'll take them," he said and fished in his pockets for bills.

The woman took his money, finally getting up the nerve to speak. "Forgive me for asking, sir, but are you…Patrick Jane?"

"No," Jane lied easily. "He died a few years ago. I look like him, though, yeh?"

"Oh, yes. Very much."

"I get that a lot. Well, bye."

And he pocketed the earrings and turned back to Lisbon, smiling. She shook her head.

"Where are we going?"

"Evangeline should be around here somewhere…"

A booming Louisiana accent rose above the crowd – "Is that him?! Is that my prize baby boy?!" -- and at the sound, he flashed Lisbon a brilliant smile.

The largest woman Lisbon had ever seen thundered through the crowd, parting it as if it were the Red Sea and she an African-American Moses. She couldn't have weighed less than 450 lbs in her red silk muumuu and batik headscarves. Her hair was in dreads and down to her waist and she wore more silver on her arms than Lisbon had ever seen in an Arizona street fair. She rolled straight over to Jane and caught him up in the biggest bear hug imaginable, and what was even more unbelievable, was the fact that he was hugging back.

She caught his face between her large hands and squeezed. "Oh, look at you, baby! Don't you just look fine? And your hair –" she slapped one of those hands on the top of his head and mussed the blonde curls up like one would muss up a puppy. "It's so long and shaggy! Why, you look like Joanna Freeman's new Labradoodle!" And she held him out to look at him from top to toe "And still dressing up so smart. So smart. But so skinny. Boy, you never could keep meat on you. Metabolism of a hummingbird, I tell you. No justice, baby. No justice." And she pulled him to her again, one last great squeeze before releasing him back to the floor. He swayed on his feet a moment, trying to regain his equilibrium and with one hand on her arm, possibly for balance, he turned to Lisbon.

"Lisbon, I would like you to meet Evangeline Makepeace. She's the director of the _West Coast Spirit, Body & Soul Psychic Fair. _Evangeline, this is Agent Teresa Lisbon of the _California Bureau of Investigations."_

Lisbon smiled warmly as her hand disappeared into the double-handed grip of the other woman.

"You his boss?"

"Supervisor. Jane consults for my unit on a regular basis."

Makepeace eyed her up, slid her gaze over to Jane, and back to Lisbon. "He's looking fine, don't you think, baby girl?"

Lisbon tried to suppress the grin. "Yes ma'am. He's looking fine."

"You taking care of him? Someone needs to be taking care of him. That boy would live on Twinkies, bologna and 40 year old Scotch if it were up to him."

"That's a fact, ma'am."

"He was the best of us, he was." Makepeace reached out and caught Jane again, drew him into her ample bosom. Honestly, the woman looked like she created her own gravity. "He could pack this place out with folks coming just for him, just to hear him speak, just to watch him reach the other side. The rest of us just rode on his coat-tails and wished for just a fraction of his gifts…"

"Lina…" Jane groaned, and Lisbon wondered if he was actually able to breathe.

"But it's true, baby boy. Don't you be denying it, now. It was that horrible man, what he done to your family…"

"Lina, please..."

"Ah, don't matter, cherie. It's just good to see you back."

"Well, Lina, about that…" Jane sputtered from inside the squeeze. "We're actually here on work –"

"You hungry, baby girl? You look like you could eat a horse. Cherie, we got to get this girl some food. Come now, follow me." She released him and turned and once again Evangeline Makepeace parted the crowds, creating a veritable vacuum in her wake.

Jane grinned at Lisbon, still gulping for air, held out a hand in the vacuum's direction, and the pair of them followed at her heels.

_______________________________

Monterey Place had several offices for the coordinators of its various events, and on this particular weekend, Evangeline Makepeace was the proud owner of one of them. She had set out a spread in her office of local delicacies, such as asparagus-stuffed panini, cold vegetarian chili, goat cheese and crackers. There was also sparkling wine, organic vegetable juice and espresso. Lisbon was in heaven.

Jane sat next to Makepeace, his paper plate filled to brimming with food. He set it down on a melamine end table, and turned to look at his friend. She was shaking her head in dismay.

"Not Kristina too. Baby boy, this is getting bad. How many you say?"

"Kristina Frye would be the fourth abduction," said Lisbon, licking the sweet and salty goodness off her fingertips. "Did you know her at all?"

"Not well, girl, but she was thinking of getting a booth this year, so we had a few conversations. Seemed a bit testy, but nice enough."

Jane sighed. "Why didn't you tell me about Dorothea?"

"Did you ever answer any of my calls, cherie? For 2 years, you never answered any of my calls, so I stop calling. Sue me."

Jane made a face, but nodded. "Was there anything strange going on in her life before she died?"

"First of all, baby boy, she didn't die. She was killed. Big difference there."

"Sure."

"But no, I didn't see nothin' that would be thought of as strange. Didn't feel nothin', neither. No one did. You'd think one of us'd get something before it happened, but no. It was enough to make you doubt your calling, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Lisbon was paying attention, and she saw Jane's eyes drop to the floor. She chewed her panini thoughtfully, wondering if the same hadn't been true for him.

"I mean," Makepeace continued. "She was at a planning meeting one night, the next she's just gone, and for two months, we heard nothin', then the police come a-callin', sayin' they found her body in Salinas, starved to death. It takes a long time to starve to death, I know it. So why didn't any of us feel anything?"

Lisbon sat forward. "What exactly would you expect to feel?"

"Her thoughts, her emotions, fears, dream-speak, impressions, something. Somebody might have written something. We're a talented bunch, believe you me."

"What has happened to her house since her disappearance?"

"The family sold it last month for a song, I heard. Cleared it of all her things. Even the clairvoyants can't help there now but the police, they never asked."

Jane sighed. "What was she doing before she disappeared?"

"Just the usual, sessions from her home, some community workshops, you know, amateur stuff, nothing big."

"Did she ever mention a new client? Someone unusual, disturbing, strange?"

Makepeace thought for a moment, reached for and sipped her sparkling wine. "Not that I can recall. But we all get strange ones, don't we? I could tell a few tales of my own, and I know you can too, cherie." She smiled at him.

He smiled back.

"You haven't touched a bit of your supper, boy. Look at your lady. She cleaned her plate, but you all business. You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Lisbon frowned. "You haven't eaten all day, Jane. Not even your sandwiches. Chow down. This is good."

"Really, Lisbon. I have no interest in food right now."

"You feeling okay, cherie?" Makepeace reached over and placed a large hand on his forehead. "Not warm. You sad about Dorothea?"

"No, not really. A little I suppose, but I'm just not hungry. I'm fine."

"Jane, what did you eat yesterday?"

He looked at Lisbon, furrowed his brow. "Oh, something good, I imagine…"

"Uh huh. For dinner, what?"

"Um…"

"Lunch? We all went to _Kosta's_, but you didn't touch your _spanakopitas."_

"They were off."

"Breakfast?"

"Tea. I had two cups of tea."

"Tea doesn't count as food. What about the day before –"

"Lisbon, please, if you must needle, I'll eat something right now just to set your mind at ease."

"Please do." She was sitting forward, intently, a terrible thought taking shape in her mind.

He picked up his plate, fingers plucking a cracker with goat cheese and cold chili condiment, lifted it and just as quickly dropped it back to the plate. He set the whole thing down and shuddered.

"Yuck."

He would deny it until he was blue in the face, but Teresa Lisbon suddenly knew that they desperately needed to find Kristina Frye and soon. For if her abductor was intent on starving her to death, not only would she die, but somehow, someway, she would be taking Patrick Jane along with her.

_**End of Chapter 4**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 5**_

It looked like any ordinary two storey house, with a large wrap-around porch and gardens in the front. It was in a suburb of Bakersfield that was old but well kept, and there had been a new infusion of families into the neighbourhood, obvious from the bicycles and skateboards littering the front lawns. There was nothing at all to indicate that a woman had been murdered here 8 months ago, and unfortunately, nothing left to go on from there.

Cho and Rigsby leaned against the side of the dark SUV, arms folded across their chests, studying the house in the fading light of day.

"It's pointless. What's the first thing a family's going to do when they buy a house a lady has been killed in?" asked Rigsby. It was more of a statement than a question.

"Redecorate that room first."

"Bingo."

Cho looked at his partner. "You say that a lot."

Rigsby shrugged. "It's in my vernacular."

"That's a big word."

"I learned it from Jane. So do we need to go in?"

"No." Cho looked back at the house.

"At least they got a partial print from the duct tape."

"Yeah. Says the guy's not careful."

"Partial shoe print, partial fingerprint. He's sloppy."

"Or, he's confident that no one will make any connections between the cases and put things together."

"Hm. That's good."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Do you want to get a hotel for the night, or keep going on to L.A?"

"What do _you_ think?"

"All right!" Rigsby smiled. "L.A. it is! Let's boogey."

Cho looked at him again. "My turn to drive. No 'Eye Spy.'"

Rigsby frowned. "Not that Van Halen CD again?"

"Think about it. What's better than wearing your sunglasses at night, driving into L.A., windows open, cranking tunes at the top of your speakers?"

"Nothing." Rigsby shrugged. "Well... maybe one thing..."

Cho looked at him.

"Maybe if you were a girl…"

"With red hair?"

"Bing-oh-yes-sir-ee-bob. That would be better."

"You're hopeless." And the perpetually deadpan Cho grinned, slipped on his shades and turned to the driver's door.

And the perpetually grinning Rigsby grinned, slipped on his shades and tossed his partner the keys.

_______________________________

The _Best Western Beachside_ was a work in progress. Originally an old motel-styled facility right on the ocean, it was being rapidly upgraded into a new, upscale and eco-friendly hotel, with conference center, first class dining rooms, spas and of course, beaches. The waves rushed and roared under the starry sky, the wind howled incessantly, and Lisbon realized that although an ocean-view was picturesque, it was terribly noisy, and she wondered if it were at all possible for her to sleep given the coastal weather.

Not that she would sleep anyway. She was worried about Jane.

He seemed oblivious to the fact that he hadn't eaten in three days, and was in blatant denial that there was anything untoward about what was going on inside his head. He was still calling it imagination. It was obvious that while he loved Evangeline Makepeace, he still defiantly rejected her lifestyle, _his_ old lifestyle, and insisted he was just operating on educated guesses and reason. Normally, that would be a perfectly acceptable explanation, but _this_ time, with _this_ case, nothing seemed normal for him, and it appeared he really was operating on a level that most people never experienced. She wondered if that was indeed his 'normal', if there wasn't a possibility that he was indeed psychic, and that this denial of it was just another one of his many coping mechanisms for a life that had seen its share of twists and turns and heartache.

He had received a concussion last week, one that had threatened to render him completely and permanently blind. Could you come back from something like that so quickly? Would there be residual effects, a healing process that took weeks, even months to complete? She wished she had more medical knowledge, and resolved to call his ER doctor when they returned to Sacramento tomorrow.

She lay there on the queen-sized bed, arms folded under her head, drapes drawn wide to let in the moonlight, mulling these things over in her head. She glanced at the clock. 3:14am. _Great._ They still had a full day tomorrow, checking with the case's original investigating officers, going to Dorothea Gavin's old home, heading to Salinas to see where her body had been found, then driving the long drive back to Sacramento. She really needed to get some sleep.

She heard the click of an outside door, and a familiar shape walked past her window, silhouetted in moonlight. She sat up. Where the hell was he going at 3:14am? She bolted to her feet, scurried to the door and peered outside. The windows looked out onto the ocean, but the door actually opened onto an exterior covered but open-air walkway that lead from room to room and to the stairs that connected all levels. It _was_, after all, a glorified motel, and as she stuck her head into the night air, she could make out his shape, trotting down the stairwell in the dark.

"Jane, what the hell is going on with you?" she grumbled, and she was suddenly very grateful that her jammies were functional, loose cotton bottoms with a black tank top. She snagged her room card, tucking it into the lone back pocket and slipped out the door to follow him.

Down the three flights of stairs she followed him, and when she expected him to turn left to go into the main lobby, he instead turned right, down another set of steps that led directly onto the beach. He was barefoot, jacket-and-vest-less, his pale blue shirt loose and untucked. _Dammit,_ she thought to herself, _if he's going for a moonlight dip, I'm gonna kill him._ But he kept on walking, striding in fact, towards the rushing black waves and frosty white caps.

And he continued walking right on in.

"Jane!" she shouted, jogging now to catch up to him. "Get your ass back here!"

He was up to his knees before she reached him, swinging her arms to make better time against the force of the water. The ocean was very cold at night, the waves very strong, and it was all she could do to grab his arm and hang on.

"Jane, please stop!"

He didn't stop, didn't even seem to notice her dragging now waist deep on the end of his arm. She had top-notch training in how to subdue a suspect, knew a variety of holds she could employ to lock him down, but here in the crushing swell of the ocean, the sheer power of the waves, it negated any force she could muster. Chest deep now and she could see a great wave coming, knew they would go under with this one, dug her heels in and yanked with all her might.

He lost balance and swung around toward her, blinking.

"Lisbon?"

The wave rose up behind him like a wall and they went under.

____________________________________

Grace Van Pelt stretched and yawned, and thought again about leaving for the night. She was tired, her muscles aching from sitting at a computer desk all day, a headache from battling Gustavson and Ferrare on the phone and grumpy from being left alone. She'd go home, have a long soak in a hot tub, watch an old movie, or maybe a new one yet again…

She brightened. Nothing beat the blues than Bella and Edward and the cold forests of Washington …

Her cell phone rang. It was Rigsby.

"Hey," she said, hating how her heart skipped a beat now just at the thought of him. It was a recent thing, girlish and unprofessional and fun.

"Hey, Grace." She could barely hear him over the wailing of an electric guitar and the roaring of wind. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought they were in a convertible. "We've finished up here in Bakersfield, but we're gonna keep going to L.A."

"Lucky ducks."

"Nah, it's boring. There was nothing here, except a partial print off a piece of duct tape. We had them flag it for you in the database."

"Great. I'll run a cross-check on any hits that have size 12 shoes. It's a long shot, but who knows?"

"Yeah. I don't think this guy has a criminal record."

"Me neither."

"Any word from Jane or the boss?"

"Nope. They're probably having too much fun in Monterey, swimming in the ocean, seeing things at the Psychic Fair…"

"Yeah. Um, maybe, you know, next time…"

"Next time what?"

"Well, they hold it twice a year, right?"

"Right."

"Maybe next time, you know…"

She smiled, enjoying his discomfort. He was such a big galoot. It was charming.

"Yeah, that'd be nice."

"Cool. Well, gotta run. Our exit's coming up."

"Have fun."

And the line went dead.

She sat for a moment, decided to forgo the hot bath and new movie, cracked her knuckles and went back to work.

_______________________________

She had tried surfing a few times when she was younger, and she could remember a time when she had been riding a crest off the coast of Santa Monica, she had lost her balance, flipped her board and gone under. It had been most disorienting, as the sheer weight of the water and force of the current turned everything upside down. She had found herself swimming toward what she thought was surface, but in the crush of the swell, it was really deep and deeper. Her surfboard had eventually been the thing that had saved her from drowning, pulling the safeline at her ankle until a lifeguard had nabbed her and brought her up for air.

Something like a surfboard was hauling her now, and she knew better than to fight it. The salty water was so cold and dark, and it buffeted like a massive fist, but she relaxed and allowed herself to be dragged until her heel struck sand, and she struggled to her feet, out of the deep and into the air.

Jane was dragging her by the wrist back to the shoreline, as soaked to the bone as she and together they sloshed their way onto the sand, dropping to their knees as soon as they were out of reach of the angry waves. Lisbon coughed several times to clear the salty water from her lungs, and flopped over onto her back, cursing the fact that sand would be in her hair for days, now, and wishing this were all some horrible, wild, vegetarian-chili-induced nightmare.

She rolled her head to look at Jane.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she panted.

"Me?" he gasped, water dripping from his curls like rain. "I was watching a documentary about sharks…"

"And what? You decided to try and find one?"

"Damn," he muttered, and he flopped onto his back now, pressed his sandy palms into his forehead. "I hate psychics."

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that, right?"

"I know." His weary grin threatened to split his face. "Can I sleep in your room tonight?"

She couldn't fight the smile, as the adrenaline rush suddenly left her feeling weak and giddy. She began to laugh, and they lay there together under the starry sky, drenched, cold and covered from head to toe in sand.

"Aah, damn…" He pressed his palms into his forehead again.

"Does your head hurt?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think this might all be from the concussion last week?"

"Maybe…Probably…Yeh."

"What's that on your hands?"

"Sand?"

"No, under the sand. The dark stuff. Looks like ink…"

He pulled them away, blinked a few more times in the moonlight.

"Damn and double damn." He sat up, wiped the sand off his palms, stared at them. "I have a feeing Dorothea Gavin stopped by for a visit tonight…" And the look he gave her chilled her to the bone.

"Damn," she grumbled, and pulled herself to her feet. She reached down, took his hand, hauled him up and together, they trudged back to the stairwell of the _Best Western Beachside Motel._

They paused on the breezeway outside his door.

"You still have your card?" she asked skeptically.

He reached back, patted his damp pants pockets, made an_'Aha'_ face and pulled out the room card. Swiped it down the lock, took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

"Damn."

"Well…" Lisbon stepped into the room. "_Daaamn."_

Every exposed inch of wall was covered in writing. He had to have been at it for hours, she reckoned, and the words were large, cursive and rambling. Several pens dotted the floor, as well as a broken pencil or two, and a felt-tipped marker. Sentences like _'I'm so scared', 'Can you hear me?'_ and _'I don't want to die here'_ ran into sentences like _'He's crazy', _'_It's all black'_ and _'Water water water'._ She stood, hands on her hips, trying to find where it might have started, but it was a jumble, like a stream of consciousness exercise in high school.

She turned back to look at him.

He shrugged, grinned sheepishly, and maybe, just maybe, more than just a little bit unnerved. "Dorothea Gavin Community College Automatic Writing 101?"

But what gripped her the most was the fact that there was one phrase that was repeated several times on each wall.

_I am Kristina Frye, I am Kristina Frye, I am Kristina Frye._

_**End of Chapter 5**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 6**_

Teresa Lisbon stood, hands on her hips, while the Monterey PD Forensics unit photographed every inch of wall in the _Best Western Beachside Motel_ room where Patrick Jane had stayed. The sheer volume of writing was mind-boggling, but knowing Jane as she knew him, what would have taken a normal person hours, could very likely have taken him minutes.

But then again, how many 'normal people' channeled abducted clairvoyants by swimming in the ocean and writing on walls.

"I'll be right back," she told the Forensics boys, and left the room to check on Jane.

He was sitting on a chair in her motel room, legs crossed, arms crossed, ankle waggling. He had showered in her room and changed out of his wet clothes into clean, pressed, dry ones, complete with vest and jacket, and not for the first time, she realized that the vest and jacket were a kind of armour, layers and layers of well-cut fabric serving as walls of protection against the outside world.

"How are you doing?" she asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

He shrugged.

She sat on the edge of the bed, folded her hands between her knees.

"Have you ever done anything like that before?"

"No."

"Do you still think this is just a result of an overactive imagination?"

"My imagination needs a drink."

"Jane…"

He leaned back, closing his eyes. "Lisbon, there is no such thing as psychic phenomena. There is no such thing as Automatic Writing, Clairvoyance, the Other Side, what have you. It's all bunk, fakery, opportunism. I hate it."

"I know, but how can you explain this?"

He opened his eyes, sighing. "I can't."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Sharks."

There was a rap at the door and she rose to find the Forensics unit wrapped up and ready to go.

"All done here, ma'am. We'll email these photos to your office ASAP. Do you want us to call the cleaners?"

"Yeah, do that. Bill the CBI. Thanks."

She closed the door and turned back to Jane. "I'm going to grab a shower now, get some of this sand out of my hair. Then we'll go down to the precinct, see if we can get a hold of those officers. Sound good?"

He shrugged again.

She sighed, shook her head, and headed to the bathroom.

______________________________

The _"Total Wellness Center" _was a traditional two-storey house, with large covered porch and gardens in the front, a rarity in downtown L.A. In fact, it was in one of the oldest neighbourhoods in the South Central district, and had likely been around since the turn of the century, as it had a distinctly neo-Victorian air. But the house now stood empty, a reflection of the entire neighbourhood having seen better days. The gardens had gone to seed, weeds and dried grass grew where perennials once blossomed. It was left to the imagination whether or not Claire Anthony had indeed brought peace, wellness and enlightenment to the soul, as her dilapidated front sign still suggested.

"Funny," muttered Rigsby, munching a donut as he folded himself out of the passenger seat. "Looks like the last house we saw. The one in Bakersfield."

"Yeah," said Cho. "Funny."

This house hadn't been bought, sold or redecorated, so they headed 'round the back to check out the door. Like Kristina Frye's place, the forensics report indicated the back door had been broken into, but there had been no boot prints this time. There had been many comings and goings in the _Wellness Center,_ so it had been impossible to determine which, if any, fibres, hairs or fingerprints might have belonged to her abductor. It had obviously been broken into repeatedly since, however, as the back door was swinging open and beer cans, newspapers and hypodermic needles lay carelessly strewn around the old carpeted floors.

They stomped up to her bedroom, a veritable garden in violet flowers, and Cho shuddered upon entering. Rigsby turned to look at him.

"What?"

"I don't know. Someone kidnaps and kills an old lady. That's just wrong."

"You bet," mumbled Rigsby. "And dying of starvation? That's no way for anyone to go."

Hands on hips, they looked around the room. Other than the curtains, sheets, bedspread and wallpaper in violet hydrangeas, the only other motif was Disney. Lithograph prints of Steamboat Willie, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty punctuated the floral designs with bold colour, and Cho walked over to give them a better look.

"These are probably worth something," he said.

"Cool." Rigsby nodded, moving to stand beside him. "Where did they find her body?"

"An abandoned house in Anaheim."

"Anaheim?"

It was only a fraction of a second before they turned to look at each other.

"Co-incidence?" asked Rigsby.

"I think not," answered Cho, and they headed back down the stairs and hit the road for the short drive to Anaheim.

______________________________________

The _"Dorothea Gavin Health and Healing Center" _was a traditional two-storey house, with large covered porch and gardens in the front, a fairly common site in downtown Monterey. The neighbourhood bordered the famous Cannery Row district of Monterey's waterfront, and had been indeed 'purchased for a song' by a niece (twice removed) of the murdered woman. Little had been done to it, other than the removal of all things ethereal, and the older children of the family had done even less to disturb the quiet calm of the Zen-inspired garden.

Lisbon and Jane stood side by side, staring at the house before deciding whether or not they needed to enter.

Jane blew the steam off his Starbucks, a concession for him, since drive-through tea shops were practically non-existent in California. He had heard once that you could get a decent cup of tea from some drive-thrus in Canada, but then again, he hated snow, so moving there simply wasn't an option, and a bad cup of coffee was still better than a bad cup of tea.

"I'm not saying anything," he said, before she had even opened her mouth.

"It is weird, isn't it?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's a lovely house. It's a lovely two-storey house, with a lovely porch and lovely gardens. Absolutely nothing weird in that."

"It's a common house plan."

"In California? Oh my, yes. Very common. As common as rusty cars and kangaroos." He sipped his coffee, made a face, dumped it on the sidewalk.

She stared at him. "You need to eat something."

"Not this stuff. Blech."

"Jane…"

"I fasted for 21 days once. Lost 30 pounds, got sick as a dog, but gave me way cool hallucinations. I was 17."

She grinned, somehow finding it strange but wonderful to imagine Jane as a 17 year old.

"Okay," she harrumphed. "I won't start worrying until day 20. But I think the 'way cool hallucinations' have already started."

"Bah. I think you were right." He tapped his head. "Residual concussion."

"Right. Shall we go in?"

He grinned at her. "Oh, let's do. If my brain is swelling, any minute could be my last. Better make it good."

She snorted.

Together, they headed through the gardens and up the front steps to what had once been _Dorothea Gavin's Health and Healing Center_.

________________________________________

Dorothea Gavin's niece (twice removed) had purchased the house less than a month ago, and had promptly moved all of her aunt's possessions into boxes, just as Evangeline had said. Upon seeing Lisbon's badge, she generously offered them the boxes – she didn't have the time to take them to Goodwill. Lisbon generously declined, thanked her profusely for the offer, but forced her way downstairs, regardless, to take a look.

"This is pointless," grumbled Lisbon, staring at the stack of boxes in the basement. "We're not going to find anything in here."

"Yeh," said Jane, staring at the same stack of boxes in the basement. "You're probably right. Absolutely nothing."

She threw a glance at him and sighed.

"All right, let's getting cracking…"

He grinned at her and reached for the first box.

___________________

­­It was a traditional two-storey house, with a large covered porch and gardens in the front, in a city that was not only home to "the Happiest Place on Earth," but also one of the safest. However, _this _house looked neither happy nor safe, as it sat abandoned in a commercial district, and was obviously awaiting demolition to make way for a new industrial project. It, and several others very much like it, dotted the barren street. Several doors down, another similar house sat blackened and crumbing, obviously a victim of arson at some point. And much like the house in LA, these gardens were little more than dry weeds and cigarette butts, a sad testimony to a long-gone green thumb.

Cho and Rigsby looked at each other.

"This is creepy," said Cho.

"Tell me about it. It's like the same house, over and over again."

"Yeah, like déjà vu."

Rigsby turned to look at his friend. "What's with that, anyway? Déjà vu? You think that's a psychic thing?"

Cho shrugged. "Ask Jane."

"Hm. Good idea." He bit into his snack-wrap, chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "So did they say she was found inside or on the porch?"

Cho pulled out his notes. The LAPD had been moderately helpful and more than willing to turn their cold investigation over to another government agency. "Inside. A supervisor was doing a final inspection before demolition and found her in a bedroom on the second floor."

"Coroner said she didn't die here though, right? She died elsewhere, but was placed here at some point, in order to be found."

"Yeah. That's what it says."

"And the house, it's abandoned, right? I mean, there's no furniture, no official owner…"

Cho checked his notes again. "Yeah, the city is the official owner. Bought it years ago, knowing this street was going to get gassed. The entire project is on hold now, because it's still an open murder investigation."

"Hm." He munched thoughtfully. "So do think there _is_ a Disneyland connection?"

Cho shrugged again. "Not likely. Guess it was just a coincidence."

"Hm."

"Wanna go in and snoop around?"

"Boss wants us back tonight."

"Unless we got a hot lead."

Cho looked at him. "Do we have a hot lead?"

"No. My turn to drive."

It was a very long drive back to Sacramento, and with Rigsby behind the wheel, _'Eye Spy'_ was back in the driver's seat. Cho sighed and tossed over the keys.

__________________________________

"Hm," said Jane, smoothing the dust off another book. He was sitting cross-legged amidst three towers of books, some hardcover, some soft, and he had been sorting according to some sort of criteria in his head. Lisbon had been given the chore of going through Dorothea's paperwork, but had yet to find her appointment book, the one treasure she had been intent on finding.

_"Hm?"_ She sighed and dropped to the cement floor next to Jane. "What does that mean, _'Hm'_?"

"She liked Steinbeck."

"Oh."

He put _The Red Pony_ on the top of one of the piles. Lisbon's eyes went wide.

"Is that pile all Steinbeck?"

"It is."

"Wow. Steinbeck lived here in Monterey, right?"

"Yep. But he was born in Salinas."

"Salinas?" Lisbon's brows rose. "That's where her body was found. Another coincidence?"

Jane grinned, rose to his feet and offered her his hand. "I think not."

He helped her to her feet, bent down, grabbed an armful of books from a different pile and passed them to her. He scooped up the rest of the tower and turned toward the stairs.

"What are these for?" she asked, staggering slightly under the weight. "These aren't the Steinbecks."

"Oh, these aren't evidence. These are for me."

"Jane!" She angled to get a good look at the titles. _The Beauty Myth, Chauvinist Pigs, _and _BITCHfest,_ to name a few. She shook her head.

Jane grinned. "Dorothea was a firecracker."

Lisbon laughed and followed him up the stairs.

_________________________________

It was a traditional two-storey house with a large covered porch and gardens in the front, in an area of Salinas not generally known for its grace or friendliness. It was an older residential neighbourhood sandwiched between stretches of railway tracks, and while some of the homes had begun the process of careful restoration as historic buildings, most of the others had not been so lucky. The gardens were not so much Zen, as California desert, with cacti, palms, drought-resistant perennials and rock beds.

Neither of them said anything about the style of the house. There seemed no point.

The owner was a charming older woman by the name of Gladys Nightingale Boyes, a fact that she took great pleasure in repeating. She had been most horrified to find a body on her porch 3 months back, and took even greater pleasure in recounting the details.

"Right here, on this rocking chair, right here." She reached out to stroke an old but carefully restored Adirondack rocking chair. "She looked like she was sleeping. I thought she was sleeping, so I shake her to try and wake her up, and she falls out of the chair. Whack! Right out of the chair! Dead."

Lisbon was taking notes, but her eyes kept wandering to Jane, who, hands in pockets as usual, seemed more interested in a house several doors down.

"So I call 911 right away. She was so thin – I thought she was maybe one of the residents from Clear Mountain, the seniors home 6 blocks north – they wander out, sometimes. The Alzheimer's, you know. Terrible thing. Anyway, I thought she was just one of them, but I realized she's not that old, just terribly thin. And then I find out later that she had been murdered! How terrible. How sad."

"That house down there…" began Jane.

"Oh, yes?"

"When did that burn down?"

Lisbon peered out across the porch. Sure enough, four doors down, a house was in ruins. Parts of the walls were blackened and missing, the roof was scorched and it looked as if most of the windows had been shattered by the flames.

"Oh," said Gladys Nightingale Boyes, "That was around the same time. Actually…"

She placed a finger on her lips in thought. "That was the same day. The very same day, if I'm not mistaken. Yes, we had police cars and fire trucks lining the entire street. It was so exciting…"

Lisbon looked at the woman. People never ceased to amaze her.

"Who owned that house?" she asked, and Gladys Nightingale Boyes knew the answer to that one.

"Oh, the Frederickson's, but I guess really it was the bank. They were in foreclosure, you know. Couldn't keep up with the mortgage. Had moved out several months back. If you ask me…" She leaned in to Lisbon with a conspiratorial air, "They burnt it down themselves. For the insurance, you know…"

Lisbon pursed her lips, as if impressed to be let in on the secret. She turned to Jane, and to her surprise, he was gone.

"Jane?"

He was already on the sidewalk, heading toward the burnt-out house. She sighed and rolled her eyes. Gladys Nightingale Boyes smiled.

"Such a nice young man," she said.

"Yes ma'am," Lisbon bit back her smile. "He's special. Thanks for your time." And she trotted down the steps of the large front porch.

"Call me if you catch the criminals!" called Gladys Nightingale Boyes with a friendly wave.

Lisbon shook her head and jogged to catch up. Jane was already standing, hands still in pockets, in front of the burnt-out house.

He turned to look at her as she caught up.

"This," he said matter-of-factly, "Is where Dorothea Gavin died."

_**End of Chapter 6**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 7**_

"So, they'll be back by 6:00 tonight? Any leads? No? Damn…"

Teresa Lisbon glanced up from her cell phone. Patrick Jane was at the door of the burnt-out house, trying the knob, pushing, pulling, trying to pick it. He had torn down the weather-beaten police tape, hell-bent on getting inside, apparently convinced that this was where Dorothea Gavin had died three months ago. There wasn't a shred of evidence to suggest that it was, but his hunches were more than frequently right. Besides, she thought, it was amusing to watch him try.

"What? The same house? Don't tell me – a two storey, with a large front porch and gardens in the front? Yeah, we've been getting that too. Both houses. Creepy is right…"

He had already ambled round the house several times, tried at one point to squeeze in through a charred hole in one of the walls, but had only succeeded in getting himself stuck, and having a chunk of drywall fall on his head in the process. She had often wondered whether his belligerence more than equaled his brilliance, and today he certainly seemed set on proving her theory correct.

"Has the CSI team sent you the images from the hotel room? Good, I want you to transcribe them, get us a hard copy, try to figure out where it all starts. Maybe there is something in there we can use. Yeah, it was Jane… Never mind, I explain later…"

At the door, Jane gave one last tug, the door popped off its hinges, and suddenly he was caught trying to stop a very large, very heavy wooden door from crashing down on him. Lisbon bit her lip as he staggered under its weight, tipping it first one way, then the other, trying to lean it back up against some wall. She could have helped him, could have run to his rescue, but honestly, watching him struggle was so much more fun.

"Okay," she said into the phone as he finally managed to lay it against the front window. The charred glass held for a moment then gave way and the door crashed right through. "We'll see everyone back in the office at 7. Get some take out for us, and we'll review what we've got. Good. See you later." And she folded her phone and trotted up the front steps.

"Thanks for the help," he panted, wiping the soot on his trousers and admiring his handiwork. "I have two doors now."

"Breaking and Entering is illegal, especially across police tape. I didn't want to aid you in committing a felony."

"Bah. You need to go in through an out door, sometimes, Lisbon. Run a red light. Live a little."

"You're my role model, Mr. Jane," she grinned in an itty-bitty voice.

He seemed to like that, and turned to the destruction that was formerly called a house.

Everything inside was black, charred almost beyond recognition. She had called in to the Salinas PD to inquire, and it was indeed listed as an open arson case, the fire having started in the basement and been fueled by gasoline. Nothing at all sophisticated, but effective nonetheless, as it was a write off, now awaiting demolition and the potential resale of the property. In a town like Salinas, that didn't bode well for the bank.

She followed him in, stepping over debris and ducking fallen beams. The smell of smoke was still strong even after 3 months, and it was making her eyes water just being there. Jane paused, turned around in a circle, as if surveying the damage, but she knew there was more than that going on.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Where did the fire start?"

"The basement."

"A stairwell, then – Ah, there." And he trotted over to what looked to have been a doorway. He yanked on this one and the knob came off in his hand.

Lisbon snorted.

He grinned and tossed it to her, stuck his fingers in the latch opening, twisted something inside, and the door swung open, revealing utterly destroyed wooden stairs going down.

"You're not going down there?" she asked incredulously.

"Why not? There's one piece of the puzzle missing, and I bet it's down here…"

_One piece,_ she thought to herself? There were over a hundred pieces and she'd been studying them for days, had just dumped them all on the floor, and didn't even have the corners put together yet, let alone know there was a missing piece.

He stepped down onto the first stair, tested it to see if it would take his weight, burnt to a crisp as it was. Tapped his foot, stomped, then both feet, bounced. Turned to Lisbon, flashed a brilliant smile. Suddenly, the step gave way beneath him and both he and the entire staircase dropped to the basement with a loud crash.

She rushed to the doorway.

"Jane! Are you alright?! Jane?!"

"Oww…"

"Jane?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I think. Yeh, probably fine."

She shook her head, lowered herself to a seated position and let her feet dangle over the now open hole.

"So," she called down. "Anything broken?"

"Oh, only my manly pride." he called back, and she could see him now, as her eyes adjusted to the near total darkness of the basement. Basements were not commonplace in California, but in a traditional house design such as this, it wasn't surprising to find one. He pulled himself gingerly out of the rubble that was now an ex-staircase, frowned at a tear in one of his pant legs, patted himself down and glanced up from below. His face was covered in soot and ash, but his blue eyes beamed at her from the darkness.

"In one piece."

"How's your head?"

"Well, at least there's only me in there at the moment…"

She grinned.

His attention was captured by something farther on, and he disappeared from view.

"Ooh, look at that. There's a room down here…"

"I don't know where you grew up, Jane, but where I come from, people do sometimes put rooms in their basements."

"Not like this…"

She could hear rattling, crashing and the rending of wood, and his sudden "Aha!" It was only a matter of moments until he reappeared at the foot of the stairwell. There was a charred but shiny object in his hand and he tossed it up to her. She caught it easily.

"It's a plate," she muttered, turning it over and over in her hands. "A metal plate._ This_ is your piece of the puzzle? It looks like something you'd take camping…"

"Doesn't it, though? Stand back…" And he reached down to haul a blackened two-by-four up from the concrete floor of the basement to the lip of the stairwell. He impressed her by scaling it like a cat.

He stood and smiled at her, looking like a refuge from a war zone. "We can go now." And he snatched the metal plate from her hands, walked to the gaping hole that used to be a door and disappeared into the sunshine.

She shook her head, utterly bewildered but used to it, and followed him out.

________________________________

They took a different way back from Salinas, one not quite as twisty, turny and hilly as the first, but then again, not as beautiful, either. It had also been less musical, as Jane sat quietly thinking and clutching the metal plate in his lap, tapping some sort of rhythm on it with his fingers. He was filthy, having tried to clean his face of the ash and soot with his jacket, which now lay discarded in the back seat of the SUV. As she drove, she spied a large local fruit market on the side of the road, and pulled over to kill three birds with one stone.

She swiveled in her seat. "You, go get cleaned up. I'm going to make a phone call and buy us some real food."

"Okay."

"Jane?"

He turned back to her. "Yeah?"

"Leave the plate."

"Oh." He looked at it as if surprised that it was still in his hands. "Right. Silly."

She frowned as he got out of the car and ambled over to the large covered building that constituted a storefront. She eased out and stretched, enjoying the breeze and the fresh smell of fruit and corn and perennials. There were many cars here, as it also seemed to be a bit of an artisan haven as well, with copper lawn sculptures, wooden benches and garden gnomes for sale.

She made her phone call and bought locally-grown grapes, apricots, and strawberries. She also bought a few apples, knowing Jane liked them and hoping she might tempt him to eat. She paid for her purchases and headed back to the SUV. He wasn't there.

She sighed, left the fruit in the car and went looking.

First, the covered market, and she asked the location to the washrooms. Trudged around the back and discovered both men's and women's. Waited for what seemed like hours. Finally, an elderly gentleman came out and she leaned into his path.

"Excuse me, sir. Is there anyone else in there?"

"Nope. Why? Don't want to wait for the missies'?" he grinned, eyes twinkling in mischief.

She grinned back. "No sir, just waiting for someone."

"Sorry." And he walked away, leaving Lisbon frowning some more. Just as she was about ready to head back to the car, the door to the ladies' washroom opened, and two plump women came out, obviously sisters, laughing hysterically.

Lisbon's heart sank.

"What a honey-bunch!"

"You're tellin' me! Makes me wish I was single again!"

She stepped into their path. "Excuse me, but there wouldn't happen to be a man in there, would there?"

They exchanged glances, then broke out into laughter once again.

"Not anymore, honey," said one.

"Not for lack of trying!" said the other.

"Mm mm mm. He cleaned up real nice, didn't he, Bernice?"

"Sure did, Denise. Sure did."

"He yours, honey?"

"Um," she pursed her lips, not knowing how to answer that. "Sort of…"

"Well, if you don't want him, you just send him our way."

"We'll take good care of him, we will, won't we, Bernice?"

"Sure will, Denise. Sure will."

And still laughing, the sisters strolled off to the fruitstands, leaving Teresa Lisbon standing alone, knowing without a shadow of a doubt, that Kristina Frye was back in the building.

She found him standing with his back to her in front of the apples. He had in fact washed his face and hands, but his hair was still covered in ash, and his vest and rolled-up sleeves were in desperate need of a cleaning. He was staring at the fruit, but not seeing it, and he didn't turn when she walked up beside.

"Jane."

No response.

"Jane?"

Still nothing.

She took a deep breath. "Kristina?"

He turned to look at her, but she could tell it wasn't him.

"Can you hear me?" he asked. "Can you really hear me?"

"Well, sort of--"

"It's Patrick Jane, isn't it? He can hear me. I can feel him in my head."

She didn't know how to answer that one, either.

"Where are you?"

"I don't know. I have no idea. There was a man...in my room... " Jane/Kristina's voice trailed off and he looked around, clearly worried. "It's so hard to see..."

"We're very close, Kristina. We'll find you soon. Trust me." She reached out to touch him on the arm, and as quickly as she had come, Kristina Frye was gone, leaving Patrick Jane blinking and swaying in her wake. She needed both hands now to steady him.

"Whoa," he gasped, wide eyed. "Outside."

"We need to get you home."

"I need a Scotch. Do they sell that here? Locally grown, totally organic Scotch, perchance? Made by garden gnomes..."

"Sorry, Jane. No Scotch. Mineral water, though."

"Damn."

She slipped an arm under him and together, they made it back to the SUV and the long drive back to Sacramento.

_**End of Chapter 7**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 8**_

Van Pelt had arranged for pizza, always a tried and true team favourite, and they sat as usual around one of the desks near the brown couch. Jane, for his part, had flopped on it once they had returned, and actually looked like he had fallen asleep as soon as his feet hit the leather.

Lisbon had closed herself in her office for a 'very important phone call', with strict instructions not to let Jane out of their site for a moment. Not to the lockers, not to the kitchenette, not even to the bathroom. Honestly, it didn't look like he was going anywhere soon.

The phone at Van Pelt's desk rang, and she picked it up, listened a moment, then slammed it back down. Rigsby looked up, frowning.

_"Oohharrgh,"_ she growled. "Those two detectives, Gustavson and Ferrare. They phone 24-7, complaining, wanting to know what's going on, wanting to be let in on the details. They're making me crazy." She scrunched up her nose, dark eyes flashing. "I just wanna, wanna… punch them in the nose."

Cho grinned and chomped into his pineapple-less pizza.

Rigsby sat forward, wringing the life out of his crust.

Van Pelt huffed. "I mean, Ferrare I can handle. He's just an overbearing, full-of-himself kinda guy. He gets his pride stepped on and just can't leave it alone, you know...?"

Rigsby swallowed.

"But that Gustavson, _arrggh,_ he's a creeper. It's like he's got no boundaries, you know? He thinks he knows more than he does about the case than he does, like he's the one who found all the previous vics, made the connections, did the footwork." She furrowed her brow, munching, fuming.

"Maybe he likes you," said Cho, still grinning and he deliberately did not look at Rigsby. He was always up for a good run at a colleague. This way, he could get a run at two.

Van Pelt scowled and took a fierce chomp of her pizza. Rigsby cleared his throat.

"I, uh, I could talk to them…"

Van Pelt huffed and shook her head. "No. I need to take care of this. It's like a football game, now, you know? The ball keeps getting tossed from one end zone to the other. Who can outlast, outmuscle, out-bluff the other. I need to do this."

Rigsby sat back, chewing in agitation but said nothing more.

Finally, Lisbon returned, snagged a red-topped triangle and pulled up a chair.

"Jane, did you have any pizza?"

"Later," came the sleepy reply.

She sighed.

"Okay, let's go over some details. Van Pelt, what did you find?"

"Well another victim for starters, Mildred Lovejoy, 'Tarot-card Reader and Channel of Pets and Loved Ones', 64 years old, abducted 18 months ago from LA, body found in Apple Valley. Same M.O., but no prints or DNA evidence."

They sat quietly for a moment, realizing that there may have been many, many more victims that they might never know about, many more women dead and many more families never knowing who or why.

"Any luck on deciphering that writing?"

"Um, yeah, actually…" She threw a look to the couch. "Jane wrote this?"

There was a groan from the couch.

"Wow. Um, anyway, it starts with a blue pen and the words, "I am Kristina Frye," and just kinda rambles from there. It describes a dark room, the smell of wood, the cold, fear, hunger. I don't think she's eaten for days, but this 'he' keeps bringing her water and an empty plate."

"An empty plate?" asked Lisbon. "Jane?"

The couch held up the metal plate like a flag.

_A piece of the puzzle._ Lisbon shook her head. He was mind-boggling. "Does she describe her abductor?"

"Not physically, no. But she says here, in various places…" Van Pelt flipped through the transcripts. "_'He's crazy…he's a child… he loves his mom.'_"

"Like Norman Bates," muttered Cho.

"Bingo," said the couch.

"Maybe that's why we keep seeing the same house. Maybe that's a part of his fantasy." Rigsby now, still munching.

"Yeah, like he's recreating something," said Van Pelt.

"Super Bingo," said the couch.

"What? A twisted home life, keeping his mom in a basement cell and feeding her on empty metal plates until she starves to death?" Lisbon furrowed her brows, exasperated.

"Super Mario Bingo. We have a winner." Jane swung his legs around and sat up. He looked exhausted, and she could see little hollows under his cheekbones. "He's delusional, and he honestly thinks he's caring for her. He thinks he's feeding her, but in reality, there's nothing there. His real mom may have spent her last years needing intensive care, and with Junior as unstable and dependent as he is, he's just trying to carry on what he was used to doing for so long."

"So, do you think he was moving around the state, abducting psychic women, finding abandoned homes that fit the bill, confining them to the basement, living with them, carrying on all that, but just not feeding them? Could you be so delusional that you would feed yourself, and forget to feed 'your mother?"

"Yes… and no," said Jane. "I believe we have a much better picture of our killer than we think. Remember, I did say yesterday that I thought the geography was curious. It stands to reason that we're dealing with only two locales here. He could very easily have lived in the LA area for several years, kidnapped Mildred Lovejoy as a playing out of his delusion but subsequently and unintentionally killed her. Repeats the pattern with Claire Anthony. He then is transferred or moves to the Sacramento area soon afterwards. Both Bakersfield, Monterey and Salinas are within a four to five hour radius, so he works in Sacramento, kidnaps these women, takes them to somewhere he thinks they would like and drives to see 'mom' on weekends. Maybe he was feeding her, but obviously that kind of sporadic care would surely lead to starvation within months."

"Surely," muttered Lisbon. He was putting 'those pieces' together for them like a Rubic's Cube.

"Maybe his real-life mom was in an institution before she died," offered Van Pelt. "Maybe someone else was taking care of her and he would only feed her or take care of her when he was there visiting on weekends?"

"Good point, Grace," said Jane, smiling. "I validate your womanly intuition."

Lisbon frowned, thinking. This was all making sense, but wasn't really leading them any closer to Kristina Frye. Jane continued.

"It could also mean that Junior doesn't really care about food, so anyone want to bet me five bucks he's a bean pole? Tall, thin and relatively young, maybe late twenties, early thirties. We have a shoe size, a partial fingerprint." He looked around at their faces. "What more do you people need?"

"Hey!" grumbled Rigsby. "It's not so easy. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Honestly," said Jane, grinning. "I should get all your salaries."

Cho grinned again.

Lisbon shook her head, not taking the bait. "So what was the Steinbeck connection? All those books, Monterey, Salinas…"

"Bakersfield…" added Cho.

"Disneyland," added Rigsby.

"Disneyland?" Jane cocked his head. "Claire Anthony's body was found in Disneyland?"

"Well, Anaheim," said Rigsby. "We thought there might have been a Disneyland connection when we saw her old house…"

"Her old house?" Jane looked at Cho, curious. "Tell me."

"Yeah," he said. "She had these original lithographs of old Disney cells in her bedroom. We thought we might have found some connection in Anaheim, but there was nothing there. At least nothing _left _there."

Jane was beaming. "Was there a burnt-down house nearby?"

Cho and Rigsby exchanged glances. "Um, yeah, actually there was, wasn't there?"

"Yep," said Cho. "Arson. Not surprising, given the area."

Jane looked positively gleeful, rocked back and forth on the couch.

"What?" snapped Lisbon, hating it when he did this.

"I know where Kristina Frye is."

____________________

"Auburn?" said Lisbon, after Jane had made them break, saying he needed a cup of tea. He was so melodramatic sometimes. "How do you figure Auburn?"

"Elementary, my dear Lisbon." He dipped his tea bag into the baby blue cup. "Claire Anthony, abducted from her LA home, loves Disney, is taken to an abandoned house in Anaheim, home of Disneyland. We don't know anything about Alanna Tempest, as he hits her too hard and she dies before leaving Bakersfield. We also don't know anything about Mildred Lovejoy but anyone want to bet me she loved the desert? Now Dorothea Gavin is taken from Monterey, where she has collected more Steinbecks than most American libraries, and he takes her to Salinas, Seinbeck's birthplace. He doesn't know these women, but if he is the son of a woman who's claimed to be psychic, what can you tell me about their homes…?"

"Well, you said it's their bedrooms that reveal their personalities…"

"Exactly. Where were the Disney prints?"

"In Claire Anthony's bedroom," said Cho. "There were hydrangeas everywhere too."

Jane nodded. "And he probably brought her hydrangeas from time to time during her captivity. Dorothea's books, like Kristina's, were likely kept in her bedroom, her one personal space that truly reflects who she is. So…" He dropped the tea bag into a trash bin, and blew the steam from his cup. "What did we learn about Kristina Frye from her bedroom?"

Lisbon cocked her head, pursed her lips. "It's very different from the rest of the house."

"How so?" prodded Jane.

"It's red."

"What kind of red?"

Lisbon snorted in frustration. "I don't know! _Red _red."

Jane sipped his tea. "Kimball Cho, what colour is my tea cup?"

"Blue."

"Wayne Rigsby?"

"Yeah, blue."

"Grace Van Pelt?"

"Robin's Egg Blue. It's actually a pretty colour. Just a little bit of green. Almost aqua."

"Thank you, Grace. Women have a more heightened perception of colour than men. Has to do with the number and ratio of rods and cone cells in their retinas."

"Did you read that in one of your books?" Lisbon snapped.

"It's simply amazing the things that I know, Lisbon. The colour Kristina Frye has on the walls in her bedroom is Auburn Red. Ergo, our crazy man-child has taken her to Auburn, California."

There was silence in the office.

"That's only 45 minutes away," mumbled Rigsby.

"30 if you drive real fast," grinned Jane, satisfied.

"Okay, we'll take two cars and meet at the old Placer County Courthouse," snapped Lisbon as she rose to her feet. "Jane, you go with Rigsby and Cho. Van Pelt, you're coming with me."

The team exchanged glances.

"Why?" asked Jane, suspiciously.

"Why what?"

"Why is Grace going with you? _I _usually go with you."

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"I have to get a few things."

"What kind of things."

Lisbon stepped toward him, lowered her voice. _"Woman_ things."

Jane hissed, stepped back. "Yeh. I'll go with them."

The men beat a hasty retreat for the cars, the women watching them go.

Van Pelt stepped up behind Lisbon. "It's not 'woman things,' is it boss?"

"No," muttered Lisbon. "I have a brilliant but dangerous plan."

"Hm," said Va Pelt with a smirk. "So Jane's possessed by a woman, and you're becoming Jane. Interesting…"

"Shut up, Grace," growled Lisbon, and led the way to her car and the _Temple of Harmony._

_________________________

It was growing dark as they rendezvoused at the Placer County Courthouse in Auburn, California. It was a large grandiose structure, visible from almost every part of the town, its domed tower reaching high into the evening sky. As historic as the town itself, the Courthouse served almost as a mini-museum of California's early gold-rush days, and featured a wonderful exhibit on Native American arts and artifacts on the second floor.

It was a must-see in Auburn, California.

Cho, Rigsby and Jane were waiting outside their SUV, arms folded, impatient. Lisbon stepped out of the SUV.

"Did you want us to call in the locals?" asked Rigsby as he peeled himself off the side of the car.

"Or maybe a real estate agent?" Cho now, still sporting his sunglasses. "We could narrow our search by looking for abandoned two storey homes with large porches…"

"…and gardens in the front. Yeah, yeah, I know," answered Lisbon. She was alone, Grace Van Pelt nowhere to be seen, and she was carrying something wrapped in silks. "I have a better idea."

Jane eyed her suspiciously.

She walked right up to him, stood toe to toe. He still had his arms across his chest, was not about to move. They stared at each other.

Cho and Rigsby exchanged nervous glances, Rigsby fighting the urge to whistle the tune from _the Good, the Bad and the Ugly._

_"Jane's_ gonna find her," said Lisbon.

"And how, pray tell? I'm good I'll admit, really I am, but not _that _good."

"You're gonna close your eyes and try to contact Kristina Frye."

"With my cell phone."

"With your mind."

"Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged."

Cho and Rigsby took several steps backwards, looked around to see what, if anything, they could use for cover.

"No."

"Do it."

"No."

"Chicken."

"Little."

Lisbon hesitated. "Wha?"

"Word association. Never mind."

She took a deep breath. "Coward."

He grit his teeth. "Stop."

"A woman needs your help. She needs you to put aside your pride and take a leap of faith to help her live. Why is this so hard?"

"Never," he growled at her. "And for no one."

And he took several steps backward before turning and beginning to walk away.

She released her breath. _Perfect,_ she thought shakily. _Just one more thing left to do…_

"Jane!" And she pulled the silks off the object in her hands and tossed it through the air towards him, hoping and praying that his reflexes were as good as she thought them to be. "Catch!"

They were.

____________________

Damn, but she was good. More clever than he had given her credit for. She had played him like a pro, but of course, he had only himself to thank for that. She was a quick study, after all. She always watched him like a hawk.

His mind was quick, quicker than anyone's, but his hands were even quicker. Always had been. Had gotten him in and out of trouble all his life. Did again this time, in the shadow of the Placer County Courthouse in historic Auburn, California, and it had unfolded as if in slow motion. He could see it happening but was powerless to stop it and he cursed his quick, reckless hands.

He had turned at the sound of his name, the urgency in her voice, his own flicker of arrogant pride hoping she would acknowledge the foolishness of her suggestion, but something was hurtling towards him and he was a good catch. A better pitcher, to be sure – he always sank the toss, but still, his hand to eye coordination was second to none, and he snatched it out of the air, just as his mind realized what it was, too late to stop it, powerless to drop it.

It was round, smooth, glassy, clear and heavy, and he knew, damn it, he knew what she had done and why and in that split second knew she was right to do it but wondered if he would ever be able to trust her again.

And then he caught it in both hands, Kristina Frye's crystal ball. Caught it, uttered a curse and was gone.

_**End of chapter 8**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 9**_

_He opened his eyes to mirrors. _

_Mirror upon mirror, wall after wall of mirror upon mirror. Mirrors on the ceiling, mirrors on the floor. In fact, it almost made him sick – it was disorienting and distorting, and he stood stock still for what seemed like hours just to get a feel for where in the hell he was. For it most certainly was not heaven._

_It was cool but well-lit, and there was a buzz, like the hum of old overhead fluorescent lights, but of course, there was only mirror. He was clutching something in his hands, something round and glassy, almost mirrored itself and when he took a step forward, it grew warm to his touch. He stepped back, it grew cool. A beacon of sorts. What was he meant to find?_

_He took another step, then another, the object leading him onwards, and it was with a terrible realization that he knew he was in a carnival funhouse, only of a kind he had never seen in all his days on the carnival circuit. This was good, he thought to himself. The best yet. Even **he** might get lost in here and he never got lost._

_But there was no way back. Every step forward made the mirrors close behind him, like doors on a jail cell. He wasn't being herded, per se, but going back was obviously not an option. So he went forward, his own reflection warping and growing, shrinking and bending all around him. _

_There was a branch, a split, a fork in the corridor, and he had to choose. One way or the other. What was at stake? This certainly wasn't a fair maze – usually one knew the goal of the exercise. This seemed futile, unnecessary, moot. He held out the object, first one direction, then the other, and it grew neither warmer nor colder either way. He sighed, wished he had his jacket on so he could shove the damn thing in his pocket, but he just couldn't bring himself to drop it either, so he picked left when his instinct said right, just to spite himself, and started off, walking briskly._

_**Help me,**__ echoed a voice. He recognized it, but couldn't say it was familiar. There was a shadow of a shape as well, a shape other than his, female perhaps, but the images were so twisted that it was difficult knowing where his reflection ended and the other one began. It was disturbing, so he tried not to look, but it was all mirrored and it made his head hurt._

_It occurred to him that that was likely the goal of the exercise – to determine what was real and what was illusion, and he realized that he had played that game all his life, manipulating reality and truth just enough to keep things interesting. And profitable, because, after all, people didn't want reality as much as their illusions. He had always simply given them what they wanted, allowed them for fleeting moments to be happy, to believe in something other than the utter hopelessness of their lives, the futility, the utter coldness of fate. He himself had twisted reality, for his own gain, and it had blown up horribly in his face. Never again to do so. For no one._

_He slowed. Lisbon? Had he said something like that to Lisbon? Why? When? It was just beyond his reach, when the voice called again._

_**Can you hear me?**_

_The images were distorting wildly now, his own face, his own hands, and he closed his eyes, holding one hand out in front to avoid a potential wall, but not caring particularly if he hit one. The hum turned into music, piano music,_ Fur Elise,_ by Beethoven, and he slowed again, not wanting to miss it. The tone, the touch, it was so familiar, and against his better judgement, he opened his eyes, allowing all his senses to guide him now. _

_There were doors and corridors everywhere now, leading in every direction, and the mirrors had taken on the look of prisms, bending light and shadow, his face bent, distorted out of shape, fearsome and awful, but the music was louder, clearer, so he continued regardless, desperate to see what lay beyond, knowing he shouldn't._

_The corridor opened into a room, where a mirrored grand piano sat in the center. From behind it, he could see two pairs of legs, one pair long, elegant, ankles crossed, the other short, childlike and swinging, and his throat tightened. Now he wanted to go back, and he turned but a mirror had closed it off, and there was, as before, no going back._

_**Jane's gonna find her.**__ Someone had said that. Just keep moving._

_He pressed his back against the wall, feeling its smooth glassy surface beneath his palm, not trusting his legs to carry him further, but knowing there was only one way to go. His breathing was coming quicker now, as he edged his way along the wall, not wanting to look, but unable to tear his eyes away. Around the piano he moved, and he could see them plainly now, both engrossed in the keys, the one gently placing the little fingers in the right places, helping little toes reach the foot pedals, keeping the haunting rhythm going with mature skill._

_He closed his eyes tightly this time, wishing he could stop, wishing he could stay, knowing that for some reason, he couldn't, and his heart was thudding against his ribs, knees weak. Just keep moving, don't stop, don't look, tearing himself apart as he slid along the wall. This wasn't real, he told himself. It was a trap, a trick, and he knew if he stopped, he would never leave, and he would be stuck here forever, and part of him wondered if that wouldn't be such a terrible thing…_

_Just keep moving, and he felt the wall behind him angle and turn, and he released his breath as he stepped out into a corridor again and away from the music and naturally, a mirrored door slammed shut behind him._

_On it was painted a red smiley face. _

_He slammed at it with his fists and the face shattered into more faces all laughing at him and he hit it again and again, making just more and more faces and finally the world began to spin and went black all around him._

___________________

"Where is he?" panted Lisbon as she caught up with Cho.

Cho shook his head, hands on his knees, out of breath. "Rigsby… still on his tail…"

"Damn," she stomped the ground. It was very dark now, the moon only a crescent in the early night sky. They were in the forest, a State Park/Recreation area that flanked the town on 3 sides. She honestly hadn't expected Jane to head into a forest, just assumed he would stay on the well-lit streets of Auburn, but of course, nothing could ever be assumed with Jane, and naturally, the first thing he had done after catching that damned crystal globe was bolt off into the bush.

There was a crashing and stomping of undergrowth, and Wayne Rigsby emerged from the trees. His face was scratched from branches, and he also was out of breath.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Sorry boss, I lost him."

"Jane's fast," said Cho, coming to his partner's defense.

"You got that right."

She scowled and pulled out her cell. "Van Pelt, we've lost him. It's up to Evangeline and the women, now…"

________________________

_There were voices now, voices calling him up from the blackness, __**carrying**__ him up from the blackness and he didn't resist. He didn't care what they did. He had made the wrong choice, should have stayed in the room with the piano, stayed there for the rest of his miserable life. He belonged there, not dead, but not really alive, trapped but happily so and he cursed whatever fate had brought him here._

_Somehow, he was on his feet again. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes._

_There was a red smiley face on the mirror in front of him. He turned around, only to find another smiley face on that wall as well. In fact, every mirrored surface was covered in bloody smiles, as well as the ceilings and the floors. Everywhere he looked, his own reflection was replaced, supplanted, changed, until all he could see was red._

"_No!" he shouted at the Red, "I will not!"_

_The smiles laughed at him, knowing him far too well. He forced himself to take a step, then another, and struck a wall, the red smearing on his cheek. He pushed himself away from that wall, took another step, struck another wall. More red. Fought the urge to just curl up into a ball and die, took another step, another wall, more red. Trapped in the red now, the corridor closed off and began filling up with it. It would choke the life from him, he knew. He would drown it red. It was just a matter of time._

___________________________

Teresa Lisbon leaned against a tree trunk, legs weak, nerve weaker. She had done such a terrible thing. He would never trust her again, she knew. Would never forgive her. How could she have done it, placed the fate of one missing woman higher than the tenuous sanity of Patrick Jane? And at the prompting of another woman she barely knew, no less, one who claimed to be his friend. She deserved to lose his trust.

Her phone rang, and she was grateful that it lit up the dark.

"Yeah, Grace. What've you got?"

"Oh, boss, this is so horrible. You won't believe it…"

"Grace, I don't think this night can get any worse. Just tell me."

"The walls just started to bleed."

She hesitated a moment, not certain she had heard correctly. "What did you say?"

"The walls. They're bleeding red smiley faces… It's so gross. It's like a horror movie."

She dropped her head, suddenly dizzy. There were 10 psychics conducting a séance in Kristina Frye's living room. She had arranged it all with Evangeline Makepeace during the drive back from Salinas and that was bad enough. Had taken the crystal ball on Evangeline's insistence. But bleeding walls? _Could things like this really happen?_ She had seen amazing things, bizarre things, horrible things in her career with the CBI. But this, this just took her realm of experience to a whole new level, and subsequently kicked her in the gut.

"Okay boss, I gotta go. Evangeline's, like, all weirded out. The others are trying to help her…"

There was the sound of many clamoring voices, and the line went dead.

She looked up at the night sky, at the crescent moon and the stars, and wondered what in the world she had unleashed.

_______________________

_All he could see was red. It was closing in on him, sending his pulse racing, his blood pressure soaring, breaking his bones, turning him to putty, turning him into red._

_Turning him into red._

_No. He was blue._

_Silly boy. Red suits you. Red is you. There is nothing other than red._

_No. There was blue._

_Red was life. Red was death._

_Blue was the sky. Blue was the ocean._

_Bright red. Dark red. Deep red._

_Baby blue. Robin's egg blue. Tea cup blue. _

_Auburn Red. Russet Red. Carnelian Red. _

_Quickly, he needed more blue. Navy blue. Light blue. Midnight blue._

_Scarlet Red. Brick Red. Crimson Red. Flame Red._

_Quick, more. Cerulian blue. Topaz blue. Cobalt blue._

_Scarlet Red. Rose Red. Blood Red. Your-Wife's-Blood Red._

_No..._

_Her-Blood- Red wins. _

_Damn. Damn. Eyes. Blue eyes. His daughter's blue eyes, laughing, smiling, singing. Blue eyes dancing, winking, weeping, trusting. Blue eyes, big, beautiful, forever blue._

_Hah! Her-Blue-Eyes win, he told the red. Red can never touch that._

_And he laughed out loud, clutched the smooth round orb in one hand and smashed the red with all his might._

__________________________________

Her cell phone rang again.

"Tell me something good."

"Evangeline's crystal ball just broke."

"What?"

"Just shattered into a million pieces. No one was touching it, I swear. It just shattered."

"Okay. Okay. We'll find them. Cho's gone back to call the local cops. We need man-power out here. We've got to be close."

"Good luck."

"You too."

And she folded it up and pushed deeper into the forest.

______________________________

His head hurt.

Was this what you were supposed to do when you had a concussion? Not that he knew he had a concussion. Not that he would have done what he was supposed to do even if he had one. It just would be good to know.

Every muscle in his body ached, and he realized he was on his hands and knees in the grass. It smelled wonderful, rich and wet and earthy, and he breathed it in deeply, letting it calm and soothe and restore. He could also smell wood, cut wood, cedar and pine and redwood and other things, chalky things, like limestone, drywall and paint.

He opened his eyes.

He was on the edge of a forest, at night. In the moonlight, he could make out shapes, dark silhouettes of many houses, houses without lights on the edge of a forest, and he managed to push himself to his feet, steadying himself against a tree trunk for balance. It was only then that he realized he had something in his hand, and he pulled it up to the pale moonlight to get a good look at it.

A globe made of crystal and polished glass. Kristina Frye's crystal ball. They all had one. Tools of the trade. He shuddered and dropped it to the ground, wiping his hands on his pants to rid himself of the feeling.

He took a step forward, waited for a heartbeat, to see if any mirrors would close in upon him, but of course, they didn't. Foolishness. Suggestibility. He was as susceptible as any. He hadn't slept for days, hadn't eaten either, probably still had a head injury. His threshold was very low, right now. Another step forward and he realized that he was on a dirt road in front of the houses, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

He was on the driveway of a two storey house, with a large porch, with what appeared to be the beginnings of a garden in the front.

_**End of Chapter 9**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 10**_

It was a new housing development that bordered the State Park, with at least 10 houses in various stages of construction. But to Jane, it looked like no one had been working on any of them for at least 6 months, and he wondered if the economic downturn and the slump in the housing market had caused this project to stall out before completion. No matter, as it was a more than perfect setting for their unsub and his surrogate mother.

He surveyed the houses up and down the dark block, seeing no sign of life in any of them. No houses burnt down yet – that wouldn't happen until after Kristina Frye was dead and the suspect felt the need to destroy any evidence of his lifestyle. His eyes kept coming back to the one directly in front of him, as if drawn to it somehow, but he dismissed that thought outright. He needed a place to start, after all. It could be any one of them. Might as well start with this one. Nothing more supernatural than that.

He crossed the dirt and gravel that would someday be a lawn, carefully moved up the steps to the porch, remembering his last encounter with steps and staircases, and felt along the doorframe to see what kind of locking mechanism it was equipped with. Back doors were often so much easier to break into, but he had no tools with him, and in the dark, it would take time to find something appropriate.

He banged on the door. "Hello," he called loudly, clearly forsaking the element of surprise. In fact, it would be most preferable if the suspect _did _flee the scene. Bad things regularly happened when he was caught in a room with a suspect.

"Hello?! Anybody home?"

No response, which was perfect, as he had an idea.

He turned and trotted down the stairs back to the edge of the forest, cast his eyes about in the darkness and spied it, glinting in the pale moonlight. The crystal ball. With a grin, he scooped it up, strolled over to the house, tested it in his hand, its weight, its feel, its shape, then promptly threw a perfect Yankees pitch straight into the front window of the house. Glass shattered all over the porch and he headed back up the stairs to finish the job.

He tapped the shattered pane with the toe of his shoe, nudged and waggled and pushed at the glass until there was a large enough hole for him to fit safely through. Satisfied with his third new door in less than a day, he stepped over the ledge of the now-windowless window and into the house.

There were no walls, only studs and simple framing, and it was very hard to see now that he was out of the moonlight. He wondered if the electrical had been hooked up, could make out white-wrapped wires and cords running alongside and across the beams, but again, didn't think poking around unfinished electrical work would be a good idea for him right now. He cursed the fact that his cell phone was in his jacket pocket, which was still in the back of Lisbon's SUV. He paused, wondering what she was doing right now. He didn't think she would be around to come to his rescue if this night went south. He'd have to be very careful.

He was grateful that his memory was still razor sharp, and he made his way to the same spot in this house as in the Salinas place, and sure enough, there was a hole in the floor for a basement. Naturally, as in the other house, a ladder was leaning against the studs, and he peered down into the darkness, hoping there was no villain lurking in the shadows.

"Hello? If anyone's down there, you should leave now. Flee for your life and all that. Otherwise, I can assure you things are going to get ugly…Very ugly…"

No sounds at all. No sounds of villains fleeing, no sounds of victims banging on locked doors. If Kristina Frye were down there, surely she would have heard him calling, wouldn't she? He frowned. That meant he had to go down, just to check. _Damn it, where were the cops when you needed them?_

He climbed down the ladder, stood at the bottom on the concrete floor for several moments as his eyes tried to adjust to the near-total darkness. It smelled down here, of human waste, candle wax, and vanilla, and he bumped into a small table as he moved slowly into the basement. His hands carefully swept the table, finding to his delight, a box of matches and several thick decorative candles. As he picked one up, he could smell the vanilla scent of it, struck a match and the underground grotto was bathed in light.

A broken-down arm chair, a bistro table with one bar stool and a lone orchid in a white vase, a radio, a pile of magazines, two orange canisters of gasoline, several metal plates and a case of bottled water were the lone contents of the basement, with the exception of the small 'room within a room' near the far end of the house. It was about 8 feet by 8 feet, by 6 feet high, a solid-walled cage studded on the outside with 2x4 construction, and covered on the inside with ¾ inch thick particleboard. No windows, one door. A prison cell for a beloved mother.

He sulked over to the door, desperately wishing Lisbon were here. He didn't want to open it to find Kristina Frye dead. Didn't need that. He didn't like the woman, true enough, but there were only so many dead bodies he wanted to find in his life, and the fewer the better. He knocked softly, no response. Lifted the crude but effective latch, pushed the door inward and stepped in, candle first, throwing light into the far corner of the room.

"Hello?"

The door slammed closed on his arm with powerful force and he let out a yelp of pain. Next, the door swung open and a body came barreling out, tackling him to the ground, sending the candle flying out of his hand. Hitting, kicking, elbows, knees, everything a blunt instrument now in the assault and he tried to cover his head with his arms.

"Ow, ow, ow, it's Jane, it's Jane, stop it, ow!"

The blows grew less ferocious, and suddenly calmed.

"Jane? Patrick Jane? Is that you?" And his attacker shrunk off him and collapsed in a trembling heap to her knees.

He slid himself away just in case, and sat up, fighting the urge to dust himself off. It was futile. He was a mess.

Kristina Frye was sobbing.

He watched her for a moment, knowing he should do something inane and comforting like hold her, or pat her back, or something equally compassionate and false, but it wasn't in him. Had never been. He rolled onto his knees now, leaned forward to look at her closely.

She was a worse mess even than he, her red curly hair matted and filthy, her face drawn and bruised, lips dry and cracked. She looked small, helpless, not-at-all the tough, steely woman he remembered.

Trauma changed things. He knew that first hand.

"We should go now, in case…you know…"

She nodded, but didn't look up. Nor did she move from her position on the floor.

"Ms. Frye…Kristina…"

She nodded again. "I know. Give me a minute."

He sighed and pulled himself to his feet, and righted the overturned candle, still flickering on the damp concrete. Ambled around the basement, hands behind his back. Wandered over to the pile of magazines – _American Cop, Law Enforcement Monthly, America's Most Wanted._

Jane's chest tightened. _Damn_. The guy was a cop.

"We need to go," he said. "Now."

She was struggling to her feet. Still, he felt no compunction to help her.

"Thank you so, so much…" she moaned. "I never thought you would –"

"I said now." He grabbed her arm and turned her towards the stairwell, but they froze at the sight of a tall, thin man at the bottom of the ladder, his face in shadow, a police 35 mm in his hand.

"Freeze." It was delivered in a dead monotone, terrifying in its lack of emotion.

"Okay," said Jane, raising his hands. "Freezing…"

And John Gustavson stepped out of the shadows and into the light.

_**End of Chapter 10**_


	11. Chapter 11

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 11**_

"What are you doing with her?" Gustavson snarled, his lips pulled off his teeth, showing pale pink gums.

Gustafson._ Fascinating,_ thought Jane. _That was a curve ball. _He'd really had no clue.

"Well, John," he said smoothly. "It's Mother's Day…"

"No it's not."

"Yes, it is. Isn't it…Mrs. Gustavson?" Jane turned to Kristina Frye, looked her in the eye.

"Yes," she said, bottom lip trembling, eyes wide. But she was quick on her feet. She had to be, in her line of work. "Yes, it is…John…"

Jane turned back to the cop. "And we told her we were taking her out for dinner, remember? We planned it last week…"

Gustafson pulled the safety off the trigger. "I'm gonna blow your damn head off."

"Fine, but after dinner, John. We have reservations at Perkins. You know how she loves them pancakes, right Mrs. Gustafson?"

"Oh, yes. I do love those pancakes. Please, John, just this once."

"Just this once," repeated Jane. "A special treat for Mother's Day."

The man's pale blue eyes blinked as he struggled with the concept.

"It's not… it's not…"

"Yes, it is," said Jane, as he slowly and deliberately took a step away from Kristina Frye. "You remember how she loved Mother's Day, John. And you love her so much. She needs you John. She's always needed you, hasn't she? Especially after your father died…"

Another step, and another, and Gustavson was torn, his attention divided between Jane and Frye. The more Jane moved, the more the pale man was forced to turn away from his victim, and Kristina Frye was being given unfettered access to the ladder, the stairwell and freedom.

"Are these your magazines, John?" asked Jane, taking another step, satisfied when Frye began to inch toward the ladder. "I've never read them before. Are they any good?"

"What? Yes. What are you doing?"

"We have reservations at Perkins, John. We don't want to be late. Can we go soon, or should we stay and have a cup of tea first. Either way that would be fine…"

Her hand was on the ladder now. _Honestly,_ Jane thought to himself, _why was he doing this? _The woman was a charlatan, cruel and ruthless and unfeeling. She had found his weakness last time, had stabbed him right through the heart with it, ripped him wide open, leaving him defenseless. She deserved to die in this black pit of despair. It would serve her right.

He picked up one of the magazines, began flipping through it, hoping it would camouflage the sound of Frye creeping up the ladder. "Wow, look at these guns. My oh my, these are impressive guns. Do you have a gun like this?"

The ladder creaked and Gustavson whirled around, 35 wild and ready.

"Mother! Come back here!"

Jane stepped forward. He'd be damned if he'd gone through all of this just to have her shot in the dark. "John, she's just going out to the car, like you told her to."

"I never told her to!"

"Yes, you did, John. Just now. Why else would she be going to the car?"

"Shut up!" Gustavson whirled back. "You, get in there!"

"What?"

The 35 jerked in the direction of the tiny room.

Jane's eyes flicked to the cell. "In there?"

"Get in there, or I'll blow your head off now!"

"No Perkins?"

"Now!"

"'Cause, you know, I haven't eaten in a while, and them pancakes are sounding pretty good." And he patted his belly with both hands, like a drum.

Gustavson's finger squeezed and a shot rang out, the bullet whizzing just past Jane's right ear. He flinched instinctively, and began sidling toward the door of the prison cell. Hands still in the air, he peered in and made a face.

"Must I? In _there_?"

Gustavson cocked the trigger again, Jane reluctantly slipped inside the room and the door closed him in blackness.

_____________________________

There was nothing to sit on, so he sat on the floor, leaned against the flat but scratchy particleboard wall, elbows on knees and chin in hands. He was depressed. Oh, he could be angry, sure. Frustrated, infuriated, betrayed, cynical, but really, why bother? He was in a stinking basement prison cell because Lisbon had tricked him and Frye had needed him. _Women,_ he thought. Needy tricksters, the lot of them. They worked men like bread dough. Wouldn't read _that _in any of his books, though. Oh no. Only the nice ones made it to the books.

He sighed out loud, surprised that there was no echo.

"Hello?" he called out, but of course, no answer. He sighed again, very depressed. It would be just his luck to die here, slowly, like Dorothea. They would find his body in 6 months or so, withered and shriveled and dry, like a prune. Or a raisin. Or a bologna sandwich left in a red gift bag far too long. Lisbon would feel so bad. Kristina Frye would feel guilty. He would be buried as a hero, having sacrificed his life to save a nasty clairvoyant faker.

"Hm." He brightened at the thought.

What kind of funeral would they give him? Would it be low key and somber, or big and splashy? Would she go all out and order the expensive casket, or would she just have him cremated and scatter his ashes in the ocean? No, knowing her, she would keep him in a jar on her desk, and talk to him from time to time, like a goldfish or a plant. She would laugh that for once he couldn't talk back, and then feel sad and guilty and miss him a little bit. And suddenly, it occurred to him that Lisbon was playing a very big part in all of this, his post-mortem fantasy experience. That was interesting and he wondered what it meant.

He could hear faint sounds from the outside room, bumping and clanging, and he hoped Gustafson was just doing some housecleaning, and hadn't found Kristina Frye and dragged her back. The only thought worse than being trapped in a dark, smelly, tiny room until he died miserably of starvation was the thought of spending that dark, smelly, tiny, miserable death with her.

There was another smell now, coming in from the outside, something sharp and pungent, and oily, and he knew it was gasoline, and he knew in a sickening instant that he wasn't going to be spending any sort of long slow miserable death with Kristina Frye, or with anyone else for that matter.

He was going up in smoke.

_________________________

The forest was thinning. She had found a jogging trail of sorts – it _was _a State Park after all, a designated 'Recreation Area' for the residents of Placer County, so the going wasn't so rough as before. She had lost sight of both Cho and Rigsby, and only hoped that she wouldn't lose more colleagues before the night was through.

Her cell phone rang. It was Van Pelt again, and Lisbon could hear many voices, each trying to be heard over the other.

"Okay, boss, we got something."

"Shoot."

"Eagle…what? Eagle Nest? Eagle Place? Eagle Ridge? Yes? Yes, that's it. They all seem to agree. Eagle Ridge Road. One lady sees a bunch of new houses, one lady sees a bunch of abandoned houses. Either way, I checked Google Maps, and there is an Eagle Ridge Road that runs along the border of the State Park in East Auburn."

She grit her teeth. "Grace, I'm in the _middle _of that State Park. I don't have a GPS. All I have is a moon."

"Oh…Um, sorry boss…Oh, wait…"

Ladies crying out now, shrieking, _"Put it out, put it out!"_ It sounded more like a madhouse, than a séance.

"Boss, you better find him quick!" Van Pelt's voice had taken on the same desperate edge of the other voices in the background and Lisbon's heart sank.

"Why?"

"The tablecloth just caught on fire!"

She shoved her phone in her pocket and began to run.

__________________________________________

The wall had grown too hot to lean against, and standing in the center of the tiny 8x8 room, he could hear the roaring of the fire all around it. His eyes were stinging and his throat ached from the thin waves of smoke that somehow were managing to sneak their way inside the wooden walls. He could make out light now in the pitch-black room, yellow and orange and of course red, dancing between the beams and tight joins in the particleboard, and he wondered abstractedly how long it took particleboard to burn. Given the nature of the product, the chipped wood, the cementing adhesive, he figured it would burn like paper, and he hoped the smoke would take him long before then.

The noise was deafening now, the roar and crackle of a healthy, gasoline and wood-fed fire, and the heat was beginning to make him dizzy. Or was that gasoline? Or the smoke? He quickly pulled off his vest, crumpled it into a ball and put it over his mouth and nose in an attempt to keep breathing a little while longer.

The door was looking thin in places, transparent, blackened, filmy sections ringed with red and yellow movement, and he tried banging on those places, hoping against hope that at some point, some part of this prison would give way, but it only served to scald his hands and fists, and he needed them to keep the fabric of the vest over his face. The smoke was thicker now, burning his eyes, burning his lungs, and for the first time in a long time, there were the whispers of fear skirting around the edges of his mind. This was bad. Actually, this was very bad, and he remembered the dream that had started it all, so many days ago, cursed the woman who had sent it and hoped she lived a miserable long life.

There was a crack from above, and when he glanced upward, he could see that the entire chipboard ceiling was ablaze. He had barely enough time to scramble out of the way as a beam splintered and gave way, sending a large slab of burning wood down into the small room, illuminating it in furious gold. It was all too loud, too hot, sucking all the air out of him, and he tried to flatten himself against the door as more fiery beams came slicing down to the floor.

The door was moving, bumping against his back, threatening to push him into the beams, and he pushed back against it instinctively, remembering from his childhood what happened to marshmallows that got too close to a blaze. He couldn't breathe anymore, the sickening fumes of burning gasoline making him dizzy and he collapsed to his knees, trying desperately to cough the acid smoke out of his lungs. The door was still moving and something told him to let it move, because the door meant freedom and underneath it all, he could have sworn he heard a voice, recognized it as his voice –no, wait, dammit…_her _voice, reedy and anxious, but there.

"Mr. Jane, please!"

Of course. Kristina Frye, calling his name. _What else would he hear in his last moments,_ he mused? Not his wife, not his daughter, not even Lisbon, but Frye. What a strange hallucination to have, what a strange commentary on what his life had become. He'd really rather not have heard it as he tried to get out of the way of the door.

A hand reached in from the outside, grabbed at his shirt, pushed and pulled at the same time, and he scrambled for it, managing to throw himself out of the tiny prison and into the basement proper. It was still pointless, as the entire basement was on fire, the old chair, the bistro table, the magazines, the studs and beams and floor joists above him, all burning like hungry matches. There were flames on his bunched-up vest now –_damn, he liked that vest- _so he chucked that as well, as Kristina Frye hauled him to his feet.

Through wave after wave of heat, he could make out John Gustavson, on his hands and knees, blood on his pale hair, the crystal ball lying suspiciously next to him.

_Well, at least she had come back for him,_ he mused as they staggered through the flames to the now-burning ladder. Perhaps she wasn't completely heartless and mercenary after all. Up the ladder they went, first her, then him and they squeezed through the hole that served as a stairwell to the main floor. He paused as she ran on ahead, debating on whether or not to pull the ladder up, leaving Gustavson to his fate. The entire first floor was ablaze, the beams and joists and ceiling rafters, splintering and crashing all around him, giving an air of urgency to his departure, and hauling that ladder would take precious seconds. But also, he realized and curiously so, that standing there amidst the flames, he wasn't as heartless and mercenary as he'd thought _he_ was, couldn't willingly sabotage the chances of another human being, even one as twisted as Gustavson. So he turned, leaving he ladder burning in the hole, hoping he didn't regret it later and dodged his way to the front door, the broken window, the cool night air and freedom.

She had collapsed to her knees on the gravel in the front, illuminated by the moon above and the blazing house behind, and he staggered over and dropped beside her. It was very difficult to breathe, his chest felt like it was full of a thousand daggers, stabbing him with each gasping breath. His throat was raw, his eyes burning, head pounding and all he could think about was water, water, water. He flopped on his back and looked up at the night sky and wished it were Lisbon here, not Frye.

"_Mother!_ Mother, come back here!"

Arms and legs and pale pale hair dancing with flames, John Gustavson stepped through the broken window and out onto the blazing front porch.

_____________________

There were some times when having a photographic memory just didn't help. The image of John Gustavson, stepping out onto the front porch, ablaze with fire, skin bubbling and searing, was now forever burned into his memory, and he cursed the fact that he had not pulled up the ladder. He was going to pay for that now.

"Damn," he muttered, forcing himself to his knees, then his feet. "Get behind me…"

And for once, Kristina Frye didn't argue, but struggled to her feet, and hid herself behind Patrick Jane.

Unmindful of the flames, John Gustavson stepped forward and raised his 35mm.

Jane raised his hands. There would be no talking now, he just knew. Pain would speak louder than words, and the smell of burning flesh filled the night air. He braced himself for the impact, as first one shot, then another, then another barked above the roaring fire.

_Fascinating,_ he thought, _no pain. What a good way to go._ He'd recommend this any day over stabbing or drowning or heart attack or any of the myriad of deaths possible.

It was only when John Gustavson's knees buckled and his body crumpled like a discarded doll that he realized he himself hadn't been shot, and that three agents were pushing their way through the black edge of the forest, each with weapons drawn. Lisbon and Rigsby and Cho, his own personal cavalry. The best of the best.

It wasn't until Lisbon was at his side, reaching for him that he felt the freedom to let go and his own knees buckled now, trusting her to catch him before he hit the ground.

_**End of Chapter 11**_


	12. Chapter 12

**Still Seeing Red**

_**Chapter 12**_

This was no ordinary dream.

When he opened his eyes, it was to the view from the master bedroom suite at the Malibu beach house. It had large wall-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean on three sides, and one of the windows was open a crack, so he could hear the rush of the waves and the gulls. It was very early morning, the sky streaked with pink and purple as the west coast sky caught up with the sun.

A woman's hand was on his chest, and he looked over to see his wife, still dreaming deeply next to him, her chestnut hair spilling across the pillows. Strange, he thought, why this should feel so odd. It was only natural. He was a lucky man, after all.

A bump in the bed in between them both and a slow smile spread across his face. Ah yes, the wedge, her mass of golden curls untamed and wild, her dark lashes closed over soft pink cheeks. She would occasionally crawl into their bed if she'd had a bad dream. Her imagination was as vivid as her father's, and she moved and talked in her sleep like he used to. He reached down a hand, stroked her hair, breathed in the scent of them, and decided that at this very moment, he was blissfully happy and undeserving of any of it.

Suddenly, the pink and purple of the sky became an angry red, and fire burst through the windows of the Malibu house, burning up the hardwood, the drywall, the bedding and the bodies in one swift swath. He hadn't even the time to cry out before the flames and the darkness consumed him.

When he opened his eyes, it was to the view from the master bedroom suite at the Malibu beach house. It had large wall-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean on three sides, and one of the windows was open a crack, so he could hear the rush of the waves and the gulls. It was very early morning, the sky streaked with pink and purple as the west coast sky caught up with the sun.

A woman's hand was on his chest, and he looked over to see his wife, still dreaming deeply next to him, her dark wavy hair spilling across the pillows. Strange, he thought, why this should feel so odd. It was only natural. He was a lucky man, after all.

He only vaguely remembered the black tank top and loose cotton bottoms she was wearing. They were hideous. He obviously hadn't bought them for her. He'd have to change that soon enough. She looked like she'd just come from swimming in the ocean. She looked like she was dreaming about sharks.

He smiled, thinking about how very pretty she was when asleep, her mouth in a little pout, her dark brows drawn in and furrowed. Again, something seemed odd, but he wasn't about to fight it. It had taken a lot of work to get her here.

A bump in the bed in between them both, and his smile grew wider. Ah yes, the wedge, her mass of dark curls untamed and wild, her dark lashes closed over soft pink cheeks. She would always crawl into their bed, no matter what the excuse, for she was a strong willed and stubborn little creature, and he loved her like crazy. She was wearing jammies like her mother, red and orange and black – _Lightning McQueen? Who the hell was Lightning McQueen?_ She was such a tomboy. Just like her mother.

He reached down a hand, stroked her hair, breathed in the scent of them, and decided that at this very moment, he was blissfully happy and undeserving of any of it.

"Wake up, baby boy. Time to rise and shine."

Evangeline Makepeace was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, completely obliterating the view of the ocean.

"Go away," he muttered, somehow not entirely surprised to find her there.

"Sorry, cherie. Not until you tell me to my face."

"_To my face,"_ he repeated, but knowing now that the moment had been lost and was unlikely to come back. He tried to put a pillow over his head, but his hands were sore and unwieldy and he couldn't find a pillow. "Now go away."

"Nuh-uh, sleepyhead," came another voice, and he looked to see Teresa Lisbon standing on one side, arms folded across her chest. He frowned, wondering how she could be in two places at once, and much preferring the one in his bed. She was quieter. "We're not going anywhere until you wake up."

"I _am _awake."

"Then open your eyes."

"They _are _open."

"No they're not."

He sighed and to prove it, he opened his eyes.

And promptly shut them again.

"Damn."

"Sorry, cherie," said Evangeline.

"I was in Malibu. It was nice. Quiet. Very quiet."

"Uh huh. Come on, baby. Come on."

He opened them again, blinking as Rigsby came into focus, then Cho and Van Pelt, and a doctor. _Curses,_ it was that incompetent ER doctor from before, the Latina with the attitude. She was standing with a clipboard in one hand and an Xray in the other. And with a sickening twist in his gut, there was Kristina Frye in a wheelchair on the other side of his bed, looking marginally better than she had earlier.

He was in a hospital room, not much different from the one last week, with pale green walls that would make a well person ill. He hated hospitals, hated doctors, hated being sick or laid up or anything that might cause someone to feel pity and therefore superior. As if on cue, the doctor stepped forward.

"Well, Mr. Jane, I can see you've been taking things easy, like I advised."

"Well, yes. Took a trip to the ocean, did a little home renovation, enjoyed a little barbeque…"

She held up the Xray. "You have increased intercranial swelling, Mr. Jane. You are putting yourself at great risk of stroke, aneurysm or edema –"

"Yes, yes. Well, if you would care to tell these 'psychics' to leave my brain alone, I would be just fine, thank you."

"You have post-concussive syndrome. You could die from this."

"I could die from many things. Life's like that."

"I will not be responsible if you discharge yourself again, against medial advice. Do you understand?"

"Will you go away if I say yes?"

He didn't need to wait to find the answer to that, as she snorted, turned on her heel and marched out of the hospital room. Cho and Rigsby exchanged glances, grinning.

Kristina Frye rose from her wheelchair and leaned forward, almost hovering over him. He shrank back in the bed, eying her like one might watch a cobra rise from its basket.

"Thank you, Patrick."

"For what?"

She smiled. "For hearing me." And she leaned closer, kissed him on the forehead, lowered herself back into her chair, and wheeled out of the room.

Jane made a face and wiped his forehead, a little boy receiving a kiss from a least favourite auntie.

"Well, I best be going too, baby boy. I got 9 ladies who came all the way from Monterey for you.'

He looked impressed. "9 women?"

_"Mais oui._ But they paid good money for some booths, and I got a Fair to finish up." Makepeace lifted her large frame from her chair at the foot of his bed and moved around to squeeze his hand. "Next time when I call, you'll pick up?"

He grinned warmly. "I'll pick up."

And she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, and pulled away to study him one last time.

"The best of us, cherie. The very best." And she turned to throw a smile at Lisbon and Van Pelt before lumbering out of the room.

Jane did not wipe his cheek this time, a little boy receiving a kiss from a most favourite auntie.

Cho looked at him, arms folded. "I'm not going to kiss you."

"Me neither," said Rigsby. "It would just be wrong."

"Wrong, and creepy."

"Yeah. Wrong and creepy."

"We're ladies' men."

"Yeah. We have our reputations to uphold and… you know, stuff."

"Oh thank goodness for that," grinned Jane, and they left the room as well.

Van Pelt was chewing a nail, studying him.

"And you," he said. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Lying."

She studied him some more.

"You are _SO_ psychic it's not even funny."

And she turned and left the room, leaving Jane and Lisbon and silence.

He sighed and looked at her. "I knew women would save the day."

She grinned. "It's all about the X chromosome."

"Absolutely. Gustavson?"

"Dead. You were right."

"Of course."

She smirked. "Fingerprints match, at least what's left of them…"

Jane made a face.

"His mother died two years ago. She was a small town clairvoyant in Stanton. Lived in a large, two storey house with, naturally, a large front porch and gardens in the front. His dad was Air Force, died 14 years ago, like you figured. It was just the two of them, no other siblings. He was a member of the LAPD, but kept getting reassigned because he kept flunking psych evaluations. It's amazing he even made it on the force in the first place."

"Because cops are such well-balanced, well-adjusted folk…"

She smirked. "His poor partner, Ferrare, doesn't know what hit him. Never suspected a thing. He's pressing charges against us."

"Sweet."

She tried not to grin. "He transferred to Sacramento 8 months ago. How did you know it was him?"

"Oh I didn't. That one threw me for a loop. I wasn't exactly functioning on all 8 cylinders these last few days."

"Right. Nothing unexplainable at all going on inside your head."

"Concussion, you know. Post-concussive syndrome, actually. The doctor said so."

"Right."

"Swelling of the brain."

"Right."

"Nothing paranormal or supernatural, just physiological. Medical." He tapped his head. "Intercranial."

"Right."

"Perfectly rational. Understandable. Explainable."

"Right, right and right."

"I'll rest now. Everything will go back to normal."

"Right."

"I hear an unhealthy note of skepticism in your voice."

"Right." And with another smirk, she pinched his toe and left the room.

He watched her go. "No kiss?" he asked the empty room, and sighed, closed his eyes and went back to Malibu.

__________________________________

He did, in fact, rest for a few days, two in hospital, and two at the CBI HQ. He was positively lazy, in fact, not budging from the couch except to mooch copious amounts of food from any and all units in the station. He had a couch-load of books to read, after all, and he'd spent good deal of his time finishing up his 'research'.

She came back one morning from a routine briefing with Minelli to find all his books gone.

"Ah," he said, smiling at her. "Merle came by to pick them up. They're library books, after all. They come with a due date."

"Like bologna," she said, observing his red picnic bag on the floor.

"Well, yes. I've offered to take her for lunch at the park. A sort of 'thank you' for all her help."

"You're a cad. And what amazing mysteries has all your research helped you solve?"

He leaned in to her, conspiratorially. "That you can't sum up a woman in any book. They are far too complex for that."

She pursed her lips. It seemed like a good conclusion.

"Ah, and here she is now…"

Lisbon turned, eagerly expecting to see an octogenarian toddling her way through the bullpen. What she did see caused her jaw to hit the floor.

Merle was a supermodel.

Tall, leggy, dressed in a figure-hugging cream suit, red hair piled in a loose knot on the top of her head. She saw Jane and smiled a perfect smile, and pulled her tortoise-shelled glasses from her deep blue eyes, pulled the pins and let her hair down, tossing it from side to side like she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

Every set of eyes in the office was on her, and she vamped straight up to the consultant and laid a perfectly manicured hand on his sleeve. She smiled at Lisbon, a you-haven't-got-a-chance-in-hell kind of smile. It set Lisbon's teeth on edge.

Jane was beaming.

"Teresa, may I introduce Merle. Merle, Teresa."

"Pleased to meet you," breathed Merle.

"Charmed," swallowed Lisbon.

"Patrick was so kind to donate so many wonderful women's books to our library. You must be so proud of him."

"Yeah. He's a regular philanthropist."

"Are we ready, Patrick?"

"Ready, Freddy. I've got lunch and a book." And he held up a copy of Dorothea Gavin's hardcover, _BITCHfest_. "This looks like a fun read."

He cocked his elbow, Merle slipped her elegant arm inside and they turned to walk away, Jane throwing a little wave and huge grin back at Lisbon, swinging the red gift bag as they left the room.

For some reason, all eyes fell on her now.

"Get back to work," she snarled, and all eyes promptly did.

She stomped back to her office, cursing Patrick Jane, men, feminist and non-feminist literature and all things of a confusing, frustrating and sexual nature, when she spied a small box on her desk.

Frowning, she picked it up, gingerly opened it.

It was a pair of earrings, delicate silver Celtic knots, the very pair he had bought in Monterey. They were beautiful and she couldn't help but smile.

Delving deep into the world's greatest mystery, the key to deep unfathomable heart of a woman, and of course, Patrick Jane had struck gold. And she realized, with her trademark lop-sided grin, that he in fact needed no 'key'.

He could simply pick the lock.

_**The End**_


End file.
